The Sparrow
by stress
Summary: COMPLETE -- Sarah's gone, and David is left with nothing but an open door, an envelope and the gut feeling that something bad has happened to his sister. Follow his journey as he tries to make sense of the Sparrow.
1. In Which a Scrap Means Something

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Sparrow**

_When Sarah disappears, it's up to David to go looking for her.  
With only a simple clue to where she could have gone, and the understanding that he's in over his head,  
it won't take him too long to discover that his sister wasn't the only one with a secret._

--

She didn't start running until she reached the front of the tenement building.

Up until that point she had kept calm. Her hands were folded demurely before her, her head lowered so that she wouldn't make any accidental eye contact. There were neighbors all around and the last thing she needed was for someone like poor Mrs. Godwin to remember that they had met that afternoon. Her father would worry, her mother would fret; they would be better of if they had no idea what happened to her.

The calm didn't last. Once she was inside the building her composure cracked and the façade was lifted. She hastily lifted her eyes, searching the darkness of the stairwell for any sleepers, and she ran. The ladylike grin she was accustomed to wearing slid into a look of determination—determination mingled with fear—as she picked up the folds of her skirt with her hands and raced up the steps.

The climb was a quick one. Her heeled shoes made a racket as she pounded the steps to her family's apartment but no one dared poke their heads out of their own holes. She was alone in the stairwell and she was thankful for it. There wasn't enough time as it was; there would be even less if she was stopped during her hurried flight.

Her fingers grasped the coarse fabric of her dress, lifting the skirt high so she wouldn't trip, but her right hand was folded tightly. There was a small piece of paper tucked inside her fist and she was taking great care not to lose it. A faceless messenger had delivered it to her in the crowded marketplace and, though she never stopped to look at it, she knew exactly what would be written on the scrap.

Someone had shoved it into her hand and fled before she even had the chance to react. But as soon as the tiny object was in her possession she _did _react—with only a simple apology to her mother for forgetting some insignificant thing from the apartment, she turned on her heel and began the short walk back to the tenement building where they lived. Somehow she knew it would eventually come to this and she was ready. Or, at least, as ready as she could be…

She almost lost count, and she didn't realize it until she was halfway up the steps that led to the floor above hers. Hurriedly, she ran back down before flinging herself towards the front door. The lock was old and rusty and offered no resistance to her panic. With barely half her effort the door swung in; she entered the apartment and quickly slammed the door behind her. Just in case.

The running didn't stop when she was home. If anything it was more upsetting just being in the apartment—after all, she was sure that he knew where she lived. If he was able to spot her from within the market's crowd, then he would have no problem finding her in the one sanctuary she thought she had.

Her stomach tightened at the thought of him, and the palm of her hand burned. That scrap of paper was pressed against her skin. She wondered for a second if she should just throw it away but quickly decided she couldn't. Not only would it probably anger him but the less she acknowledged his presence, the better. Besides, what would her family think if they found the note?

They would never understand. They wouldn't be able to. Hell, she wasn't even sure she really understood what was happening and it was her fault. Wasn't it?

She kept her right hand folded around the bit of paper as she ran to her corner of the apartment. As quickly as she could, without losing the scrap, she reached under her cot and took out a satchel that had been stowed there. She would have had to be a fool not to have prepared for this moment; she was no fool and the partially packed bag echoed that.

The bag was faded and covered with dust but it was sturdy and held three of her skirts. A blouse or two had been stowed inside, plus her spare chemise and a handful of ribbons. She hurriedly added her favorite hairbrush, a pair of stockings and the small purse that held all of her savings before deciding she was finished. There was barely any time and it was enough for her to live off of until she could come back.

If she could come back.

Still panicky, she thought she saw, out of the corner of her dark eyes, a looming figure in the window. She froze immediately, the sound of her breath picking up as the paranoia set in. It was one thing to constantly feel the need to look over your shoulder; it was another for someone to actually be there.

There were shadows everywhere and guilt dogged her every step. She had tried her best to outrun it, to hide from the shadows she had made herself, but it was no use.

That's when she heard the sound of approaching footsteps in the hallway. Her senses were heightened out of fear and the clomping of the shoes broke the spell the silhouette had on her. There wasn't enough time to stand there, frozen and afraid. It was about that time of day when her brothers came home from school and she would be sunk if they spotted her during her attempted escape. Between them at the door or someone at the window, she would take the window.

Her left hand reached for the curtain in front of the window. She pulled it, an intake of breath matching the motion, but no one was there. The fire escape was empty. She was alone. She cocked her head and listened for the sound of closer footsteps. They had faded too. No one was there—not yet, anyway.

The relief was overwhelming. It cascaded over her in waves, letting her forget for the moment what she was doing. But then she saw the satchel sitting on her bed and she remembered.

Without another thought, she slung the satchel over her shoulder. It wasn't as heavy as it could have been and she was glad. She had a long walk in front of her; a heavy pack would only slow her down. But, before she could head back out onto the street, there was still one thing she had to do.

Though she hadn't thought it would happen so soon, she was expecting this and they had made a plan for when it _did _happen. She wouldn't be without help for long and, if she was lucky, she wouldn't have to confront him at all.

Her mother, she was sure, had wondered why the girl needed the envelope and the paper when she asked for it but she never said. She was happy for that because she didn't know how she would have explained it, especially since she was the only one of her siblings who didn't go to school. Instead, she thankfully accepted the piece of stock and the envelope her mother had found for her without even offering an explanation. She hadn't had any need for it yet and she'd hidden it in the bottommost dresser drawer.

Now, though, she dropped to her knees and started to rummage through the drawer. There were articles of clothing and pieces of lace amid various odds and ends thrown in the drawer. She had no patience for it. Without really paying attention to what she was doing she picked much of the drawer's contents up and tossed it to the side.

"Ah ha," she murmured victoriously when she spied the corner of the envelope sticking out. Using her free hand she reached for it and pulled it out. She was still rushing—no one had entered the apartment yet but she knew her good fortune wouldn't last—and, in her haste, she tore the corner of the sheaf.

She ignored it and quickly grabbed one of her brother's fancy pens from the top of the dresser. The exact message had been ingrained into her memory over the course of the last fortnight and she hurriedly scrawled it onto the sheet. The ink blotted once, right on the edge of the last word, but it didn't matter. He would know what the message meant.

After shaking it a few times, she folded the note in half but stopped before she had put it in the envelope. She had an idea.

The scrap of paper that faceless messenger had delivered was still in her hand. She knew she couldn't leave it behind because she didn't know who would find it but she didn't want to hold onto the reminder, either.

Before she could think better of it, she slipped the scrap into the folded note she had written and then slid the note into the envelope. She made sure to address the front of the envelope, confident that it would find its way to its intended recipient. She just hoped that no one would read it before he did.

That was all that was left to do. She couldn't leave a note for her family—she didn't know how to put in words exactly what was happening—and, even if she could, she didn't want them knowing, any how. She had gotten herself into this mess, somehow, and it was up to her to get herself out.

Then, with one last, quick glance around her home, she secured the satchel on her shoulder and ran back out of through the front door of the apartment. In her hurry, the door did not shut fully behind her. She never noticed. By the time the door had swung back in, she had ran halfway down the first stairwell.

She didn't stop running until she reached the front of the tenement building.

There was no sign of her mother or her brothers and she was relieved. To be on the safe side, though, she turned left once she was on the street. None of them would be coming that way and it would buy her some time. Maybe. After all, she never really knew where he was or where he could be…

She gulped and gripped her bag. It was hard to think that only a year ago she was an innocent, naïve girl, content to sew doilies and tat lace until something better happen to her. Now it had and she was unaware of how to handle it. In a way, she knew, she was still that naïve child, knowing nothing and unaware of what really lurked in the world.

However, if there was one thing that she learned in the time that had passed since the summer before, it was this: don't jump out of the nest unless you were prepared to fly.

As Sarah half-walked, half-ran down the avenue, she had the vague sensation that she had jumped long ago but only now was beginning to fall.

* * *

Author's Note: _Well, I di__dn't really know if I wanted to start this. But, after_ Pick Your Poison _ended, I really wanted to work on another 1st person POV story. I decided to give Skittery a reprieve as I chose David as my next target. I feel like the Jacobs family gets the short end of the stick in most fan fiction so I thought I'd try to tackle a couple of them. And since I kept getting snippets of dialogue and a couple of really intriguing OC's kept demanding to be written, I decided to start this story._

_As you can tell from this first bit, Sarah's going to play a big part but mainly off screen. After this prologue, everything will be in David's POV and it will be... interesting. He has a voice of his own and quite the story to tell. I love a good mystery and I think that's the direction this will take. To say anything else might just give it away ;) _

_-- stress, 04.04.08_


	2. In Which a Door is Opened

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Sparrow**

_When Sarah disappears, it's up to David to go looking for her.  
With only a simple clue to where she could have gone, and the understanding that he's in over his head,  
it won't take him too long to discover that his sister wasn't the only one with a secret._

--

"And then Jimmy told the teacher that some great big bully knocked him down and dropped his book into a mud puddle and that's why it was so dirty, 'cause Jimmy's a baby who don't stand up for nothin'. I asked him if it was the Delancey brothers who done it but he told me I didn't know what I was talkin' about. But I do know what I'm talkin' about 'cause I stood up to them lousy brothers before. Didn't I, Davey? Remember that?"

I listened as Les told me about his school day, making sure that he kept walking straight. Sometimes, when Les really got into a story, his attention was very easily distracted. I've seen him trip over a bum in the street, fall on his knees and still finish some pointless story about how his schoolmates threw a shoe at the schoolmaster.

"Uh-huh," I said, grabbing Les by the arm and guiding him past a stack of crates on the corner. "And…?"

"And then I said that, if it was me and that was my book, well, then I woulda stood up to that dumb bully. I woulda licked him, too. But Jimmy—"

As soon as I let go of his arm again he immediately veered off track. I sighed. That was Les for you.

"Watch it, Les," I warned before reaching forward again. I grabbed the edge of his shirt just in time to stop him from walking straight into the apple peddler's cart. The old man standing in front the cart barely missed getting hit in the stomach as I pulled my brother to the side; Les liked to wave his hands energetically when he talked.

He didn't even notice how close he came to hitting the man. So wrapped up in his story about Jimmy and his muddy book he barely heard my voice at all. He just wiggled out of my hold and continued right on talking.

"—he said that I would need the help of all the newsies in the Lower East Side… no," he said, interrupting himself, "no, all the newsies in all of New York, that's right, to beat this bully of his. What do you think, Davey? Do you think Cowboy and the others could really soak that bully?"

I couldn't help but smile. Sooner or later all of Les's tales mentioned newsies.

"Sure, Les. I don't think any bully could stand up to the might of the working kids of New York," I told him, placing my hand back on his shoulder and trying to steer him forward again. Mama wanted us home right after school and I didn't want to tell her that Les's stories made us late again.

"That's what I thought." He nodded eagerly before turning to look at me over his shoulder. He gave me one of his impish, know-it-all looks and started to walk quicker than he had been. Les must have known that story time was done for the day because he tucked his book under his arm and, before I knew it, started to run down the busy street.

It was an awkward run, I noticed, part skip, part hop and all Les.

I watched as he almost ran into one of the shoe shine boys before turning around and waving at Mrs. Godwin, that nice old lady who sold flowers on the street. She smiled at him, murmured something about him being "a good boy", and nodded her greetings at me.

I raised my cap and smiled back at her—just as I watched Les slow down long enough to rub his hand along the flank of a police officer's horse.

"Careful, Les," I called, breaking into a quick jog in order to catch up to him. There wasn't a cop sitting in the horse's saddle and that worried me; there was no one to control the horse if it decided to take a snap at Les's outstretched hand. "Don't let its teeth get too close to you. If you go home missing a finger Mama won't let you go out to sell the evening papers!"

It was the worst threat I could come up with but I knew it would work. And it did.

Les turned around and stuck his tongue out at me. But he did move away from the horse.

"I'm gonna sell fifty papes by myself today," Les boasted as he started to run again, swerving wildly past a courting couple that was sitting on the front stoop of the building next to ours.

I started to yell at him to slow down but decided against it. My brother wouldn't listen to me anyway. He never did.

Les was still running up ahead but, by the time we reached our tenement, I knew it was pointless to try to stop him. We were inside the building now and anyone who was trying to go down the stairs would hear Les thundering up them a mile away. I didn't have to worry about any other collisions or accidents.

Unless, of course, some sleeper had taken up habitat in the stairwell but after the last time Les had tripped and fallen right on top of old Salty, most of them steered clear of our tenement.

I took my time going upstairs. Just before we stepped inside the building I had looked at my pocket watch. Even though the journey downtown seemed so long, thanks to Les's babbling, we were actually getting home around the same time that we normally do. Mama would be waiting for us inside with Sarah—if we were lucky, there might even be a small meal waiting for us because I was pretty hungry.

My stomach had most of my attention as I reached our floor. Maybe that was why I didn't stop walking when I made it to the door and—

"Ouch, Dave. That was my _foot_!"

—walked right into Les.

"Sorry, Les. It was an accident," I said, rubbing my elbow. Les sure had a very hard head. "What were you going here anyway? You just stopped… why?"

He pointed. "What's the door doin' open?"

I followed the point of his finger. He was right, the door was halfway opened.

That was strange. Mama liked to keep the front door closed at all times unless, of course, she was cooking cabbage and the wind couldn't carry the stink out of the kitchen. But I couldn't smell cabbage and the door was definitely open.

"Hey, Les? Do me a favor, alright? You just wait right here," I said, placing my hands on his shoulders and gently pushing him to the side. If there was something going on inside the apartment, I didn't want Les to get in the way. Besides, I would need someone to run for help if I got in trouble. "I'll, uh, I'll just nip inside and check things out. I'll be right back."

"Do you want me to go in with you?" He put his fists up and pretended to box with an invisible opponent. "I could take 'em."

I patted his shoulder. "That's okay. You stay here."

He nodded as he lowered his hands. I may have been imagining it but he looked a little relieved that I wasn't letting him follow me right in. "Let me know when I can follow you in."

"Sure."

I cautiously pushed the door the rest of the way inward, stepped in and looked around. I didn't see Mama in the kitchen, and Sarah wasn't sitting in her usual chair working on her piecework. That wasn't very strange, though. Sometimes Mama went to the market when Les and me were in lessons. But she never left the door open…

"Mama? Sarah? Anyone?"

There was no answer and I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. If the door hadn't been open, I wouldn't have been so nervous. Where was everyone? Papa was at work in the factory, I knew that, but what happened to Mama and Sarah? Why weren't they here and, if they left, why was the door open?

I walked into the kitchen, slightly worried. There was a piece of paper on the table and I felt a little bit better. I picked it up and quickly scanned it—it was a letter, written in Sarah's hand. Just like I first thought, Sarah had left behind a small note telling me and Les that she and Mama were going to the market to buy some potatoes for supper.

Well that was that, I thought. They obviously left the apartment for the market and somehow the door had been left open. I couldn't really figure why but as long as there was a logical explanation for nobody being home, I was satisfied. It had been a little bit disconcerting to find the door open but everything looked fine from where I was standing.

Until I turned around, that was.

There was no one in that corner of the room now but that didn't mean that no one had been there. From the look of it someone had been there, and recently too. They had been in a hurry; there were contents of an entire drawer spilled out on the bed behind me and onto the floor in front of me. The bottom drawer of the dresser was still open and, as I looked back at Sarah's bed, I saw a white rectangle sitting right in the center.

There was another note. At least, I thought it was a note. At the very least, it was in an envelope. And the envelope had four letters written on it, written in Sarah's distinct and tiny penmanship: Jack. Whatever else she had written, whatever else my sister had put inside an envelope, she had addressed it to Jack Kelly.

I held the envelope out in my hand, perplexed. What was going on here?

"Dave? Can I come in yet? I'm dyin' for a cup of water out here."

I didn't answer him but I don't think Les was waiting for me to in order to enter the apartment. I heard him coming in and, before I could stop myself, I had slipped the envelope into the front pocket of my trousers. I don't know why I didn't want Les to see it but I know I didn't. He would have too many questions and I didn't have any answers.

Les was quick. He was standing next to me, looking at the mess on Sarah's cot. He pointed at it with a dirty, ink-stained finger. "What happened?"

I shook my head. "Nothing, Les," I lied.

"Nothin'? What's Sarah's stuff doin' out, Davey? Did she go somewhere?"

I had to hand it to him. That was the one question that was suddenly plaguing me and I wished, more than anything, that I could answer it. But that was Les, he had the annoying ability to strike right at the heart of things. I reached down and tried to straighten up the scattered blouses and pieces of sewing that were crumple in the center of the cot. "I don't think so, Les. Sarah probably was looking for something in a rush," I said, gesturing half-heartedly at the open dresser drawer.

Les glanced at the drawer and nodded innocently. "Maybe that's why the door was open, huh, Dave? Sarah rushed out with Mama and the door popped open after them. How's that sound?"

"Yeah, Les," I said absently, feeling the edge of the envelope sticking out of the top of my pants. Slyly, I lowered my hand and made sure to cover it. I didn't know what was going on but I did know that I didn't want to involve Les if it was possible. I still haven't forgiven myself for leaving Les with Racetrack the night I tried to break Jack out of the Refuge. He still tries to bet me double or nothing on bum odds.

"I mean," he continued, his mind focused on one idea and one idea only, "that old lock doesn't work like it used to. The other day I brought Boots over to see my marbles collection and we didn't even have to turn the doorknob to get in. He pushed me right into the door and it swung in."

"Uh huh," I said, agreeing with him for the sake of agreeing. "You do make a good point, Les."

He grinned cheekily over at me. I tried my best to return the smile. I was the older brother, after all. It was my job to make sure that he was protected, even if it meant lying to him again.

"And then—"

"Les," I said, interrupting him, "listen to me. I just remembered something. I… I left one of my books back at school. I want you to wait here for Mama until I get back."

There was a suspicious look on Les' face. It reminded me a bit of Jack, cocky and unsure at the same time. I didn't like it but I didn't like what he said next more. "And what about Sarah?"

What about Sarah? Oh, right. She was supposed to be there, too. She was _supposed_ to be _there_, too—and she wasn't. I just hoped that the hidden envelope told me why.

"Sarah too," I agreed. "They should be home soon. Just tell Mama… Mama and Sarah… that I'll be right back, alright?"

Les nodded. He pushed aside the clutter on the cot before taking a seat. He set his own schoolbook down beside him as he looked at me. There was a knowing look on his face now, one that made me think that he was older than his ten years. And, for a second, I wondered if I should let him come with me. I mean, Jack liked him a lot and everyone knew that Les would follow Jack to Santa Fe and back if he could… but, no. I couldn't.

Instead I ruffled his hair—he grimaced and backed away from my hand—before heading toward the front door. It was still open but I barely noticed it now. Now that I had another mystery on my hand, the mystery of the disappearance of Sarah Jacobs, it didn't really matter why a silly old door was left open.

* * *

Author's Note: _And here's the real start of the story. This is how it should flow from now on and it should get more interesting once we actually start confronting other characters about Sarah's supposed disappearance._

_I do want to thank Biddy, Roman and Aki for their reviews. I'm glad that you guys had something nice to say -- it was so sweet!_

_-- stress, 04.06.08_


	3. In Which David Makes a Delivery

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Sparrow**

_When Sarah disappears, it's up to David to go looking for her.  
With only a simple clue to where she could have gone, and the understanding that he's in over his head,  
it won't take him too long to discover that his sister wasn't the only one with a secret._

--

I wouldn't really call myself a curious guy. Curiosity often leads to trouble and I tended to try to avoid getting into any sort of trouble whenever I could. It was hard, I've got to admit, to keep out of trouble when Jack was around but, with the exception of the strike last summer, I've managed pretty well.

But, just because I'm not all that curious, that didn't mean that I was ignorant. If there was a question, that could be answered, or a riddle that needed to be solved, I would probably try to answer it. Mysteries always were very tempting to me if only because there had to be some sort of logical explanation somewhere.

Maybe that was why I took the envelope. I took the envelope from off of Sarah's bed, stuffed it into my pocket and left the apartment—but I didn't open it. I don't think the idea to actually open that envelope ever crossed my mind. If it did, then that would make me curious. But I wasn't curious; I just wanted to know what was going on with my sister and I thought that Sarah's message for Jack would tell me.

I wanted to know what was inside of the envelope but not enough to actually invade Sarah's privacy. The envelope had Jack's name on it, not mine. I was going to have to bring it to him to open.

And, if I played my cards right, I might just be able to get Jack to tell me what happened to Sarah.

There was one small problem, though. I realized it as I stepped out of the tenement and I paused in the middle of the busy street, shaking my head. Where was I supposed to find Jack?

It was the middle of the afternoon, probably too late to find him selling the morning edition of the World, but not late enough for the evening paper.

Knowing Jack, there were a few places he could be if he wasn't selling. The lodging house, Tibby's, Irving Hall to see Medda, all the way to Brooklyn to check in with Spot… and, since I did know Jack, there was even the chance that he could be in the Refuge again. Where was I supposed to look first?

I decided to go to Tibby's first for no better reason that it was the closest one of Jack's haunts to my building. That, and because I was pretty sure I could see Mama's blonde head bobbing up and down, getting nearer and nearer. She was coming home, she was only a block or so away, and I didn't want her seeing me there.

If she found out that I thought something was fishy about Sarah, she would be furious that I went out on my own instead of waiting to tell her and Papa about it.

But, before I left, I did shield my eyes and squint a bit in order to get a good look at Mama. No doubt about it—she was alone, and she looked worried.

For some reason, I wasn't surprised.

Sarah, where did you go?

--

The walk to Tibby's didn't take long but that might've been because I spent most of the short walk with my head down and my hands in my pockets, imagining all sorts of reasons why Sarah would've left an envelope for Jack and disappeared. None of them were very hopeful and I tried to clear my head. It wouldn't do my any good to get all worked up—that would have to wait until after I spoke to Jack.

That was another thing. Why was the envelope addressed to Jack? They were friends, definitely, and the two of them had even had a brief summer romance just after the strike last year, but I didn't think that Sarah had spoken to Jack in quite some time.

She never was comfortable going down to the newsboys' lodging house to visit Jack and, when school started again and Papa went back to work, Jack slowly stopped coming around the apartment. Without the two of them seeing each other all that often, their attraction just fizzled and faded until there was nothing left but a mutual friendship. Sarah started to talk to a couple of neighborhood boys; Jack, I heard from Boots, stepped out with a couple different girls over the course of the last winter.

Things were so different now than they were when summer ended. Even I only saw Jack when Mama let Les and me go out to sell the evening paper for pocket money.

What, then, did Sarah have to tell Jack? And why couldn't she tell me?

That little jealous question seemed to nag at the back of my mind, underneath all of my other concerns. Sarah was my sister and if something was wrong, I would've thought she would come to me for help. We weren't that much different in age, she was only a year older than me, and we were pretty close.

The image of the front door being left open, and the pile of clothes and scraps of lace and other odds and ends scattered on her bed and the floor flashed before my eyes. Without really knowing, I was certain that something had happened to her. In fact, I don't think I've ever been so certain of anything in my life. It was like a gut reaction, a hunch I had to follow through on.

I could feel the thick, coarse paper rubbing against the inside of my hand. That one envelope, the one thing that seemed the most out of place, was the only hope I had. Pulling my hands out of my pockets, I tried not to focus on that either. For all I knew, it could've been a note that she wrote for him back when they were closer. Just because I happened to find it today, that didn't mean that it held the answer I was looking for. I just hoped it did.

So wrapped up in my thoughts, I almost walked passed the little restaurant. I only knew that I was passing it when the familiar stench of fried bratwurst, sauerkraut and cheap beer caught my attention. Looking up, I saw the familiar storefront and quickly turned around so that I was facing the door, my hand stretched out for the door handle.

I peeked inside before actually entering. Tibby's was, in my experience, very rarely empty but it was pretty crowded inside. It looked like many diners had come out for a late lunch, or an early supper.

The tables and the handful of booths in the back were completely filled. Since that was usually where the World newsies usually met—when the headline was decent, of course, and their improvisational skills were at their best—I began to think that my journey across town just might be justified.

The smell of cooked meat and the stink of cabbage—now I smelled it—was even stronger once I walked into Tibby's and it reminded me how I hungry I was before. I had rushed that morning and breakfast was only a piece of bread leftover from last night's supper but, even though I could hear my stomach grumbling in protest to all the strong smells, I ignored it. There more important things than food just then.

A waiter hurried by me, a tray in each hand. I was standing still in the doorway and he barely spared a glance at me as he swerved by and started to walk towards the back of the restaurant. I did try to step out of his way; I noticed and recognized the peeved expression he was wearing. It was the one that most waiters wore when having to serve a bunch of rambunctious newsies.

Without another thought, I followed the path the waiter was making through the tables. I had only gone halfway across the room when I saw quite a few familiar faces; just like I'd assumed, the waiter was setting the two trays in the center of a table full of my friends.

I could see Racetrack, Mush and Kid Blink sitting on one side, facing Skittery, who was sitting in between two girls I didn't know. One was an olive toned, dark-haired girl with a cheery grin and a calm manner; the other a taller girl, somewhat thinner, with her brown hair twisted up and out of her face and a disinterested frown as she played with her straw. Swifty was sitting at the edge of the booth, having pulled a loose chair up to the side, and he was trying to reach for a chicken leg without any of the others noticing.

For a second I thought that Jack wasn't there but that was before I looked at the next table over. He was sitting there, sitting across from Crutchy at a table suited for four. The seat next to Crutchy was empty but there was another girl at this table, lounging in the seat beside Jack.

She was barely shorter than Jack, even slouching, and she was an unusual looking girl, I thought. Her skin was fair, and there were dark lines under her eyes. Her light brown hair was long; she wore it plaited and the thick braid was resting over her shoulder. Her lips were a vivid red color—I think that's what caught my attention—and, unless I was wrong, she was wearing lip paints.

I didn't recognize this girl either and I wasn't really surprised. It wasn't too unusual to see that some of the fellas were taking up with ladies now that the weather was warming up again, especially after what happened to Pie Eater. After Pie got his lady friend into a spot of trouble and left the lodging house to work in a factory, it seemed like more and more of the guys were bringing around a girl that they were sweet on.

Most of the girls were working girls, whether they were seamstresses, factory girls or newsies themselves. I'd met a couple of them, new friends of Jack mostly, who worked down at the milling factory. They were nice girls but they were nothing like Sarah.

Not that I had anything against them. It's just that, whenever I saw Jack with another one of them, it made me wonder what the two of them, Jack and Sarah, ever saw in each other.

"Dave! Hey, look fellas, it's Davey!"

Crutchy was waving wildly over at me. I had followed the waiter most of the way to their tables but I'd stopped a couple of feet away when I was looking over the new faces I saw. I was still standing there, standing on the opposite side of Jack's table and, before Crutchy called out to everyone that I was there, only two people had seen me coming: Crutchy and the braided girl.

I think she caught me looking at her because, as I started to walk over to the table, I could feel her eyes on me. I felt a little foolish and, honestly, a little embarrassed at the attention. My eyes glanced back at her again and I confirmed it—she really was watching me. There was a tiny grin, almost like a secretive smile, on her face and, when our eyes met, I'm pretty sure she winked at me.

Doing my best to pretend that I didn't see that, I waved back at Crutchy. "Hi, Crutchy," I greeted before looking past him and addressing the other booth. "Hey, guys," I said simply. It had been some time since I had joined the other newsies over at Tibby's during the week and they all looked surprised to see me.

After I waited for the greetings from the others sitting in the booth—they were loud, full of whistles and hollers, and the shorter of Skittery's companions offered me a gently wave; the other girl just scowled and whispered something to Skittery—I then turned my head to look at Jack. I nodded at him. "Jack."

I don't know if he saw that girl looking at me or not but there was a calculating look on his face. It was almost as if he couldn't believe I was standing there and it took him a few seconds to reply.

When he did, he nodded back up at me and patted the table. "Hiya, Dave. Haven't seen you around these parts in awhile." His face split into a grin but I had the strange feeling he didn't mean it. "Why don't you take a seat?"

Shaking my head, I tried to make my face look as serious as I could. "No, thanks, Jack. I can't really stay—"

"Sure you can, Davey," interrupted Crutchy, grinning goofily over at me. His wooden crutch was resting on the extra chair and he removed it. "There you go, a seat just for you."

It was a nice gesture. Crutchy was a really sweet guy but sometimes I wished he was just a little bit more perceptive; he had no idea that the reason I couldn't stay wasn't because I didn't think I had a seat.

I didn't want to hurt his feelings but I knew this was too important to spend extra time sitting in the little restaurant. Still standing, I appealed wordlessly to Jack instead.

Jack got the message. "I think Dave's in a hurry, Crutchy," he said, raising his eyebrows over at me. "Ain't that so, Dave?"

"Yes, you could say that. In fact, I just stopped by to talk to Jack," I answered, relieved to see that Crutchy was still wearing that too wide smile he had. He didn't look offended that I didn't want to sit with him; he just looked interested to hear what I had to say.

"Is that right?" Jack asked. I didn't miss the suspiciousness in his voice. "Weren't you going sellin' tonight, Dave? It's Friday, ain't it? I thought I was gonna meet up with you and Les later."

I shook my head again. "It couldn't wait, Jack. I had to…" I paused for a second, aware of the suddenly quiet corner. It seemed as if we had an audience so I lowered my voice. If it turned out I was overreacting I didn't want the others to know about it. "I was actually wondering if—"

"You're gonna have to speak up, Dave. I can't hear a word you're sayin'."

Just then, as if his words meant something else, I could hear some of the others raising their voices as they continued talking about whatever they'd been talking about when I arrived. Maybe they were smart enough to tell that I had something on my mind and that I was trying to tell it to Jack; maybe they were trying, slyly, to eavesdrop. In fact, I wouldn't put it past them to do just that—I kept my voice low.

"Listen, Jack," I began and I leaned down, "I was wondering if maybe you've talked to Sarah lately?"

I wasn't surprised to see Jack's eyes flitter over to where the girl was sitting beside him. If she was his new lady friend then I'm sure he didn't want her knowing about Sarah but, at that moment, I didn't really care. I was too worried about my sister to try to be secretive around his new girl.

It took him a few seconds to answer my question. I knew before he even opened him mouth that it would be pointless, though. He was going to lie to me.

"No, Dave. Sorry. I haven't seen Sarah in weeks," he said.

He sounded defensive and I think that's what made me so frustrated. He was lying to me, I knew he was, just because he was seeing a new girl.

"Are you sure?"

Jack smirked at me. "Of course, Davey. Why do you ask?"

I didn't really mean to do it but the nerves—the very same ones that had appeared in the instant when I saw that the door to my family's apartment had been left open—were stronger than my common sense.

Raising my eyebrows and pursing my lips, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the envelope. I slammed it onto the tabletop and slid it over in front of Jack.

"She's gone, Jack. My sister's gone, but she left that for you."

* * *

Author's Note: _And there's chapter three! I introduced two characters that were so very generously lent to me. We'll see more of them later and, of course, actually learn their names. I figure, we should probably find out what Sarah left for Jack first ;)_

_I want to thank Aki, Biddy, Swindler, Brockie, Pokey7, Roman, Rae and Peg for their reviews. That was such a great response to chapter two and I hope you guys liked this one too!_

_-- stress, 04.11.08_


	4. In Which Jack Lies a Lot

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Sparrow**

_When Sarah disappears, it's up to David to go looking for her.  
With only a simple clue to where she could have gone, and the understanding that he's in over his head,  
it won't take him too long to discover that his sister wasn't the only one with a secret._

--

Jack glanced down at the envelope on the table. His lips moved as he read his name on the front but he didn't pick it up. Instead, he looked back up at me. He was still wearing that cocky smile of his, condescending and suspicious at the same time. "What do you mean 'gone', Dave? She's probably just out deliverin' her lace or something. Did you ever think of that?"

Of course I'd thought of that, I wasn't an idiot. The entire way over to Tibby's I wondered if I was overreacting, if I was reading too much into things. I don't know why I was so convinced but I just knew something was wrong, even if I there was no real proof but my own insistence. Sarah was missing, I was sure of it.

But how was I supposed to explain that to Jack?

Sounding somewhat defensive myself, I told him, "She wasn't home when me and Les got out of school."

I realized as soon as I said that that Jack could hear my words and believe that his idea was the right one. It would make sense; if Sarah wasn't home, then she probably _was _out doing something so simple as delivering a basket of lace. But I didn't care if it made sense or not—that's not what happened.

Something was nagging at the back of my mind, something that was telling me that there was something I was overlooking. I didn't pay much attention to it, though. Jack was chuckling at me. It was as if he found my concern funny.

He had reached out his right hand to cover the envelope from view, I noticed. With his left hand, he gestured to me. "See?" he said, sounding quite proud of himself. "Now, tell me… was anyone at the apartment when you got back?"

I didn't understand what that had to do with anything. "No…"

Jack tapped the tabletop with his open palm. "Exactly my point. Say your sister ain't out makin' her deliveries," he said. He must've noticed how defensive I sounded, "and, like you said, she ain't at your apartment. But you're ma ain't home either, right? Maybe Sarah went out shoppin' with her?"

That nagging feeling shot through my head and I slapped my forehead in recognition of it. Now I remembered.

"She was supposed to be, Jack," I countered, my head stinging now where I hit it. I barely noticed the pain, though—I finally remembered the simple note that Sarah had written out for me and Les and left on the table at home. Suddenly I was even more certain that something had happened to her. "Sarah was supposed to be at the market with Mama. She said so herself—"

"Then maybe that's where she is, Dave!" Jack shot back. He didn't sound nearly as amused as he'd been only seconds ago. In fact, he sounded nervous and… scared?

No, not scared. I must've imagined that. In the time that I've known Jack Kelly I could count the times I've seen him afraid on one hand. But he definitely sounded nervous.

His tone took me by surprise and, for a heartbeat, I just stared at him. He kept his hand on that envelope, trying to hide it from view, but his other hand was pointing at me. Jack was sitting up in his seat; he wasn't leaning back into it anymore. He'd lost that knowing smirk of his; he looked slightly uncertain.

I think he was finally beginning to understand that I wasn't making this up. Thank goodness.

It was quiet again. I kept my head straight, looking diagonally across the table so that I was staring right at Jack. It was easy to pretend when I was talking to him that the others weren't sitting there too but I was reminded of their presence when the surrounding noise seemed to just… stop. This was probably better than a show down at Irving Hall for some of them.

They were all waiting to hear what I would say next. I bared my shoulders as I leaned in closer to Jack. His insistence that Sarah was where she should be was infuriating. "She's not. I saw Mama, Jack, and Sarah wasn't with her. I'm telling you, she's gone!"

Jack squinted at me. He licked his lips once before nodding at me. "Okay, okay… maybe Sarah went for a walk, maybe she went to visit a friend," he told me, shrugging. "There's no reason to get so worried, Davey. Besides, she's a big girl, she can take care of herself."

It was strange hearing Jack be the voice of reason and, for a moment, I almost believed him. That's when I realized that he still wasn't being honest with me; he was being himself—he was being a liar. Feeling a bit foolish for almost being taken in by him, I began to wonder if he was just humoring me, if he was just making it up as he went along.

And then it hit me. Just as I was certain that Sarah was gone, I was almost sure that Jack already knew that. He sounded too confident that nothing was wrong; he was offering excuse after excuse for her without seeming the least bit concerned that maybe—just maybe—she was in trouble.

And why would he be so sure that she was fine? Perhaps because she'd told him herself?

I shook my head. There was only one thing left to do. If he was trying to cover for Sarah, then I was going to call him out on it. I needed to know what was in that envelope.

My hands were clenched into fists at my side. I lifted one up and used my pointer finger to point at the tabletop. The envelope I'd given him was still covered by his hand but I knew it was still there.

"Jack, I want you to open that envelope."

His eyebrow raised. He looked surprised that I would make such a demand of him. "Dave, I don't th—"

"Please, Jack, I had to hurry all the way down here to deliver Sarah's letter to you. I just want to know what it says."

"Yeah, Cowboy," interrupted Crutchy, his thin, high-pitched voice seemingly coming from nowhere. "You should… open… "

His voice trailed off as Jack turned his heavy gaze on him. I guess I wasn't the only one who was trying to keep our little conversation secret.

"Never mind," Crutchy added hurriedly before turning to look to his left. There was still space at their booth to add a second seat next to Swifty; without another word, Crutchy dragged his seat so that he was sitting close to Mush. Then, as loudly as he could, he asked Mush about some girl he'd met last night.

As soon as he was sure that the others weren't obviously watching him, Jack lifted up his hand and picked up the envelope. Then, with the attitude of one doing something simple in order to placate another, Jack did just what I asked: he opened the envelope. He slid the folded up piece of paper out of the envelope before tossing the envelope back onto the table. Then, when he was sure he had my attention, he opened it.

A little piece of paper had been tucked inside the note. Jack hadn't been expecting it so, when he opened the note, it fell out and fluttered to the restaurant's floor.

The tiny scrap landed face up and, even though I was on the opposite side of the table, I could make out a blue etching on the paper. It was a drawing of… something, something small and somewhat round, with many little lines and details. The scrap had been torn off of a larger seat of paper and it was slightly wrinkled; it barely lay flat on the ground.

I only had a few seconds to look at the scrap before someone scooped down to pick it up. I'd thought it was Jack but no… Jack hadn't moved from his seat. The note was open and he was reading the words written on the paper; he hadn't even noticed that something else had fallen.

"Ah, _shit_," he mumbled under his breath. His words, like before, seemed to filter through the quiet, inviting the other newsies to talk again. The background noise started up again; if Jack said anything else, I didn't hear him.

I don't think he actually meant to say anything out loud and his quiet words immediately drew my attention back to him. His eyes were on the paper held tightly in his right hand. I couldn't read what was written there since the paper was a thicker stock and the ink hadn't bled through.

"What's it say, Jack?" I asked urgently. I hoped I surprised him enough with my question that he wouldn't have enough time to think up a lie.

Because there was no doubt about it, Jack was rattled. Maybe I was the only one who noticed it, especially since every single one of the eavesdroppers surrounding us seemed very interesting in their food and drinks all of a sudden, but his face had dropped and he'd taken one great big breath as he looked at the note.

It didn't lasted, of course. Jack was a champion liar; his smile was back in place mere seconds after he let it briefly vanish. He offered another chuckle, quickly folding the note back up and waving it absently before slipping it inside his vest.

"Nothin', Dave."

It wasn't nothing, that much I knew. Nothing wouldn't have made him freeze like that. "But—"

"It's nothin', Dave," he repeated, fiercer this time. "Sarah just wanted to thank me for helping her out with some stuff, you know?"

I narrowed my eyes on him. "Really? That's why Sarah left her bed a mess, that's why all of her stuff was thrown everywhere? Because she wanted to write you a thank you note, Jack?"

I didn't miss it this time either. His eyes flickered over to the braided girl in the seat beside him and the nervous, restless way he glanced at her made me question my earlier assessment that she was his new girl.

Turning my head slightly, I dared to look at her again. She was still slouching in her seat, trying her best not to look interested in the argument me and Jack were having, but I could tell she was listening to every words that'd been said. I couldn't explain why but the way her ears were cocked slightly to pick up every whisper, every yell, made my nervous too.

I met Jack's gaze again. His expressions was set, his mouth a thin line.

"Don't worry about Sarah," he said then and I could tell that that was the end of the conversation. For now, anyway.

That didn't mean that I was going to leave it at that. I was too angry, too worried, to let Jack quiet me down like that. Maybe I was being petty, but I slammed my hand against the tabletop again just to make my point. Then, huffing angrily as I spoke, I said, "You know what, Jack? I don't know why I even bothered giving you that letter. I don't need you, I don't your help. I'll find Sarah on my own!"

Jack didn't say anything in response to that but that might've been because I didn't really give him the chance. I was feeling righteous, and slightly betrayed. I'd risked my neck for the newsies last summer—Sarah too—and what was my thanks? I go to Jack for help and he tells me not to worry about my sister. My sister!

I should've demanded to see the actual note but I didn't think about it at the time. I was too busy storming out of Tibby's.

I was breathing heavily as I pushed my way through the crowd. I heard a gentleman make a remark about me being rude but I ignored him. My mind was whirring and I didn't know what to do now. I was even surer of it now that something bad was happening and it was frustrating that one of the few friends I had was turning against me. It didn't matter that Jack was lying in an attempt to showcase his loyalty to Sarah—I knew he knew something about Sarah's disappearance and he was keeping it from me.

The streets were more crowded than they were when I was walking to Tibby's but I barely noticed the other people. Jack's indifferent attitude to Sarah's disappearance bothered me more than I could say because it was so obvious that he was hiding the truth from me. And I'd thought we were friends.

There was nothing I could do, though. Sarah had left something for Jack and I'd given it to him but I hadn't gotten any answers for my trouble. The only thing I could hope was that, somehow, Jack's lied proved true and Sarah would be back home when I got there.

That thought in mind, I started back in the direction to my building. Mama, I knew, would be angry if I stayed out that much longer—especially if Sarah, wherever she was, was already out.

I kept my head down as I quickened my step. I was more careful, making sure that I didn't collide with anyone else on the street, but I did hurry my pace. If I did return home and Sarah still wasn't there, Mama and Papa would need all the support I could offer.

"David?"

Because my head was down, I didn't see who it was who called my name. I stopped walking, lifting my head immediately. From my first look, it didn't seem as if anyone was calling out to me and I wondered if I had imagined hearing my name. It wasn't an uncommon name, after all…

"David? David! Over here!"

There was no mistaking it that time and I quickly tried to follow the sound of the female voice with my eyes and ears. There, at the next corner, was a hand waving out from the depths of a darkened alleyway. I could only hope that, whoever was waving, they were waving at me.

Trying not to look too eager, I walked down the rest of the block. I glanced behind me as I approached the corner, checking to see if someone else was walking towards the alleyway; no one else was, and I had to assume that the hand signal had been meant for me.

"Yes?" I called as I turned the corner and stood at the mouth of the alley.

I was very interested to see what sort of girl was attached to the waving hand, especially since she seemed to know who I was. For a brief second, I entertained the idea that maybe it was Sarah, disguising her voice maybe, but when I came face to face with the girl it was very easy to see that she wasn't Sarah.

The girl was tall, about my height, and very slim. Her dark blue eyes were darting to and fro nervously, and she was playing with the hem of her long grey skirt. Her dark brown hair was pulled back, showing off the slenderness of her neck as she kept her head straight, looking out into the busy street.

"I know you," I said, surprised. I pointed at her. "You were that girl sitting with Skittery!" I shook my head in disbelief. The last time I'd seen her she was sitting beside him; she must've run quite quickly to beat me here. "What do you want me for?"

She nodded quickly while, at the same time, bringing her pointer finger to her lips in a request for quiet. "Shh," she hissed before grabbing my arm and pulling me deeper into the alley. "Did anyone see you come here?"

I didn't know what that meant, or why it mattered, as I said, "Well, yes. The street was quite crowded when you called me in here."

She shook her head. "That's not what I meant, David," she said seriously, her thin lips turned down in a frown, "and there's not much time. I think your sister's in trouble."

I knew it… but how did she know it?

Confused, I started to ask her before she interrupted me. "Listen, miss—"

"Rachel. My name is Rachel Harpen and you… you _are _David Jacobs, aren't you?"

I wondered how she knew who I was but I wasn't about to ask. It wasn't important. What was important was finding out just exactly what she was talking about. "Yes, I'm David bu—"

Rachel shook her head and I noticed that that wasn't the only part of her that was shaking. She'd shot her hand out in front of her and I could see that her fingers were trembling. There was a scrap of paper held between her thumb and forefinger, almost as if she didn't want to touch the paper any more than she had to.

Even though it was slightly dark in the alley I was still able to see what was on the scrap—the same lines and circles, dots and dashes of a complex drawing that I'd seen on the scrap that Jack had dropped back at Tibby's. The same scrap that he'd dropped… right next to where Rachel had been sitting next to Skittery.

I'd seen someone pick it up and I knew it hadn't been Jack. It must've been this girl… but what exactly did it mean? And why did a blue drawing on a worn piece of paper mean that Sarah was in trouble?

I looked up questioningly at the girl but I didn't have to say a word. She knew what I was going to say before I'd even had the chance to say it.

She waited until I had accepted the scrap of paper before she said, "I think the Sparrow has your sister, David. And, if he does, she is _definitely_ in trouble."

* * *

Author's Note: _Look at that, another chapter already! It's been quite some time since I had such a wave of inspiration for a story and I'm hoping to ride this out as long as it lasts. Updates for some of my other stories shall be shortly… I don't know, it's something about Spring that makes me want to write. _

_Major thanks to Tiny Timb, Brockie, Biddy, Rae and Swindler for reviewing the last chapter. I hope this one answered some questions—before asking one big whopper of one right at the end ;)_

_-- stress, 04.13.08_


	5. In Which Another Clue is Discovered

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Sparrow**

_When Sarah disappears, it's up to David to go looking for her.  
With only a simple clue to where she could have gone, and the understanding that he's in over his head,  
it won't take him too long to discover that his sister wasn't the only one with a secret._

--

I wasn't sure I heard I heard her right. A sparrow? A sparrow has Sarah… and she's in trouble?

"What?"

I took another look at the scrap that she was holding out to me. As soon as she said the word 'sparrow' I could imagine that the picture was a crude rendering of a bird. But that didn't offer me any other information. I think I heard what she said but I sure didn't understand it. What would a bird want with Sarah?

Glancing up at her, I shrugged my shoulders and offered the scrap back to her. She was staring apprehensively over at me, and I could tell that she really expected me to know what she was talking about, expected me to be nervous because Sarah was with a little brown bird.

Rachel shook her head but refused to take the paper back. "I don't think you understand, David. You have no idea, do you?"

"I know what a sparrow is," I said, a little annoyed that she would think I was so simple that I didn't know what a sparrow was. I may not have earned my education on the street but I did get an education in a classroom.

Pointing at the blue drawing of a little bird that I still held, I said, "See. Here's a picture of one. It's just a bird."

"I thought that's what you'd say." She pointed at the scrap but didn't touch it. "Yeah, a sparrow's a bird, right, but I wasn't talking about _a _sparrow. I was talking about _the _Sparrow."

"Is there a difference?"

She let out a short laugh before moving quickly to her left, walking past me and looking out into the busy street.

I don't know what she was looking for out there but she didn't return to face me for a minute or two. I felt silly, standing in the darkened alley, listening to one of Skittery's girls talk to me about birds but she'd mentioned Sarah—Rachel seemed to think that one particular bird had my sister.

She was right. I didn't understand at all.

Rachel mustn't have seen whatever it was she was looking for because, after what seemed like forever, she came back to stand in front of me. She was nervous, I could see, and her dark eyes continued to move back and forth in an alarmed, yet haughty, way.

"Of course there's a difference, David. The Sparrow's not a bird, you know."

"If he's not a bird," I asked, curious and confused, "then what is he?"

She blinked once before giving her head a tiny shake. "He's a man, of course. It's called a nickname, David."

A nickname. Why didn't I think of that?

I mean, there was Jack, who went by Cowboy, and Racetrack and Mush and even Crutchy… all of the newsboys seemed to have nicknames, most of them strange and curious. I hated to admit it, especially since it had taken me so long to catch on, but it was entirely possible that there was a street kid running around who called himself the Sparrow.

I swallowed and some of the nerves I'd been experiencing settled. In fact, I almost let out a little chuckle. The name 'the Sparrow' didn't really make me too nervous, I have to say. Maybe if she was telling me that someone called Killer had Sarah, I would have been more upset.

It was going to be a mistake on my part, but I didn't know that then. As far as I was concerned, Sarah was with a fella named after a bird. How much trouble could she _really _be in?

"Well, is he really bad? Is it really that terrible that he might be seeing Sarah?"

"I didn't say he was seeing your sister. I said that I think the Sparrow has your sister." She didn't choose to answer my questions, I noticed. Instead, she just repeated what she told me before. "I… I really do think he's got your sister, and that's… that's not good."

I still didn't understand.

"Why? Who is this Sparrow guy?"

Rachel had folded her hands behind her back and she was staring down at her heeled shoes now, purposely avoiding my questioning gaze. When she spoke, she was muttering. "It's not Sparrow, David. It's _the _Sparrow… and I—I can't tell you who he is."

"And why not? If he's got Sarah and you tell me that's not a good thing, then why won't you tell me who he is?"

Slowly lifting her head, I could see her face. Rachel was biting her bottom lip, though her chin was thrust out in a defiant manner. "It's not my place. You're going to have to figure that one out on your own."

She still didn't answer my questions and that worried me. Was she lying? Was this all a big joke? She called me into an alleyway to tell me that she thinks Sarah's in trouble but she won't tell me anything else. What was going on?

I'd never seen this girl before and I was suddenly reminded of that fact. She didn't know me and I was pretty sure she didn't know Sarah, but she was acting like she knew exactly what was going on with my sister. I needed to know how; otherwise, I wasn't sure that I would be able to accept anything that Rachel Harpen was telling me as the truth.

"Fine," I ceded, holding my hands up in defeat, "you won't tell me who the Sparrow is. Can you at least tell me how you know he's got my sister?"

"That's his sign, David. The blue drawing that your sister gave to Jack was the sign of the Sparrow."

"Wait. You're telling me that my sister had the sign of the Sparrow," I began, lifting that stupid piece of paper up—Rachel flinched when she saw it, "and she gave it to Jack so that he would know that she had it. But," I added, remembering what happened back at Tibby's, "he doesn't know that she had it because he never saw it. You," I said, pointing at Rachel now, "picked it up off the floor and didn't show it to him. You're showing me instead… but why?"

There was a second when I didn't think she was going to speak up again. Despite the dim lighting I was able to tell that she was surprised at my direct question. She obviously was expecting me to know more than I did; when I didn't, she must've thought that I'd leave it alone.

But I didn't. I couldn't. I was after answers now, and I wanted her to give them to me.

Rachel cleared her throat before moving away from me. She wasn't meeting my eyes as she talked; she kept her attention on something that was behind me.

"You're her brother, ain't you? That's family, it is, and I believe in family," she told me, and there was earnestness in her tone that had been missing before. "I got brothers of my own and if I ever got mixed up with the Sparrow, I'd want one 'em to come lookin' for me, not someone who got me in that mess in the first place."

I heard what she said and I could figure what she was implying. I knew Jack had to have something to do with this—I'd known it right from the start, right from the moment when I found that envelope addressed to him.

"What did Jack do to Sarah?" I asked, sounding a lot more demanding than I meant to. I should have been grateful for her information but I wasn't. I wanted to know more.

Rachel's eyes widened as took a step away from me, frowning. "You're gonna have to ask him about that. I've told you too much as it is."

Her voice was wavering and it only just dawned on me what she had done. She seemed to be afraid of this Sparrow person but she'd gone out of her way to warn me about him, warn me that he might have Sarah. I bet that was why she kept looking out into the street, and why we had to have our conversation in a darkened alleyway in the first place.

"In that case," I told her, "I should get going. If I hurry back I can probably make it to Tibby's before Jack leaves. But thanks, anyway."

I didn't really mean anything by that. I _was _appreciative of her; she told me more in our few minutes of conversation than I'd learned since finding Sarah's cot in such a mess. It would have been nicer if she was a little more honest with me but she'd mentioned the name of the person I needed to find: the Sparrow. Maybe, if I was lucky, I could get Jack to tell me more now that I knew that name.

I may not have meant anything but Rachel turned away from me when I said that. That one action made me uncomfortable and I suddenly knew that there was more to this than she was telling me, something that she was expressly hiding from me.

I was getting frustrated with the way that everyone was hiding things from me. Crossing my arms over my chest, I said, "You told me too much, you said? But is there something that you're not telling me?"

She was rocking on her heels, looking everywhere but at me. She looked like she was trying to make a decision and I hurried her on by tapping my feet.

Rachel exhaled. "Fine. There is something else, but I shouldn't tell you. You know, I could get in a lot of trouble if anyone finds out I did."

"No," I said quickly, "you won't. I'm not going to let anyone know how much you helped me. But I need to know, I need to help Sarah. Don't you want me to do that?"

Almost resigned, she nodded. "I… it wasn't only the scrap that I saw today at Tibby's," she admitted. "I caught a peek at that letter you gave Jack."

"You did?" I asked, surprised. With a relieved smile on my face, I said, "That's great! What did it say?"

"460 Madison Avenue"

"An address?" I was confused. "All there was…there was an _address_ written down?"

She nodded again. "Yeah. It was hard to read, there was ink blots on it. But I'm pretty sure that that's what I read." She paused before adding quickly, "Can you remember that? Here, repeat it back to me."

"460 Madison Avenue," I repeated immediately. She sounded so urgent and, besides, she told me what was on the note that Sarah gave to Jack—I would have done whatever she told me to do in gratitude.

"Good. Now, I've really told you all I co—"

Rachel stopped talking mid-sentence. Her eyes were still wide as she inhaled deeply before reaching forward and grabbing my arm. "Move," she said franticly, pulling on my arm.

She was a thin thing, her arms as thick as a sliver of wood, but she was much stronger than she looked. Her tiny hand was wrapped around my arm and, before I knew it, she'd pulled me right to my knees. She dropped down right beside me just as I saw something whizz over our heads.

There was a loud noise, a quick crash followed by a second thud. It was as if something had missed hitting us and, instead, had smacked right into the brick wall of the alley.

Rachel was trembling again but she was braver than me. As soon as I heard the thud she was up on her feet, hurrying toward the alleyway's mouth. I saw her silhouette from my place on the dirt ground; her hand was shielding her eyes as she searched the crowd for whoever had thrown something at us.

I stayed low to the ground—just in case—as I half-crawled, half-dragged myself over to where I'd heard the thudding noise. It was darker the farther I went but not too dark that I didn't see the black rock standing out against the brown dirt.

Someone had thrown a rock at Rachel and me.

My hand closed around it automatically. I picked the rock up and brought it close to my face so I could get a better look at it.

It was a pretty big black rock, about the size of my fist. I turned it over; there was a small crack on one side where it had hit the wall. I barely paid it any attention, though—there was something on the other side that made me stop and stare.

Someone had, using white paint and a steady hand, drawn a small, spotted bird on the underside of the rock.

Someone had drawn a white sparrow on the black rock… and then they'd thrown it at us.

Holding the rock in my hand, I stood up slowly. "Um, Rachel?" I said, turning around to show her the rock. "Look at th—"

I stopped talking. There was no point, after all. No one was standing there anymore.

Rachel was gone.

* * *

Author's Note: _I want to thank Biddy for letting me use Rachel in this story. Hopefully this won't be the last we see of her ;) And, look at that—we have a little bit of information on this mysterious Sparrow fellow. And another clue for David… this should be interesting! _

_I also want to offer my thanks to Rae, Biddy, Roman, Swindler, Peg and Pokey7 for reviewing the last chapter!_

_-- stress, 04.20.08_


	6. In Which Answers are Found in the Gutter

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Sparrow**

_When Sarah disappears, it's up to David to go looking for her.  
With only a simple clue to where she could have gone, and the understanding that he's in over his head,  
it won't take him too long to discover that his sister wasn't the only one with a secret._

--

I blinked once, barely closing my eyes for more than a second, but nothing changed—the girl was gone, that much was sure. There wasn't even any sign that she had ever been there at all, from what I could see; no shoe prints left in the dirt at the entrance, even. Just an empty alleyway that led out onto the busy New York street.

I crossed the small amount of space that separated me from the street, nearly tripping over my feet in my hurry. While I was still somewhat rattled, and my trousers were covered in dust from my fall to the ground, I chose to conveniently forget about being attacked in favor of checking to see where Rachel had gone. She couldn't have been that fast. Maybe I could catch up with her.

Moving my head from the left to the right so quickly that it gave me a pain, I looked for her but it was pointless. There was no flash of a long, grey skirt, no defined yet nervous profile glancing back at the alley. Rachel had been swallowed up by the constant crowd; she was definitely gone.

I couldn't really understand why. She'd been nervous, sure, and there was no doubt that we _had _been assaulted by someone, so maybe she went off to find out who'd thrown the rock. Or, considering the way she seemed to be intimidated by this Sparrow character, maybe she tried to escape from whoever threw that darn rock.

And it was not only that. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, there was a little voice that asked me if I'd imagined the whole meeting. My imagination had been working overtime ever since I'd seen that the apartment door was open—if it was possible that Sarah could vanish so abruptly, then perhaps it was possible that I'd hallucinated my talk with Rachel.

If it wasn't for the scrap of paper I held in my right hand and the rock I gripped with my left, I might've bought the idea that it was all in my imagination. It wasn't often that I had a conversation with a girl that I wasn't related to; it was hard to believe that I might've had one with Rachel.

It all seemed so strange.

Deciding it was in my best interest to accept everything that was happen as real and to believe everything that Rachel had told me, I stepped out into the street myself. Someone had known that we were in that dark alley and we'd been lucky that their aim was poor. The painted rock could've done a lot of damage if it me or her. I didn't want to take the chance of being a target again.

Once I was back on the street I moved a couple of feet away from the alley, taking shelter in the open doorway of a small bakery. After slipping that scrap of paper that Rachel had give me into my pocket, I lifted the rock up and tried to get a better look at it. Maybe I would notice something about it that made sense out of everything.

Just as I'd first thought, it was a rather large black rock. It must have hit the wall hard when it was thrown because the chip actually led to a crack that spanned half the rock. That made me very nervous; I could only imagine what would have happened if it actually hit one of us.

Using the sunlight, I stared hard at the white painting on the topside of the rock. It was a sparrow all right, painted in a similar style to the blue drawing on the crumpled piece of paper.

I felt my stomach tighten as I let the rock drop from my hand. It landed with picture facing upwards; a quick tap with my shoe was enough to turn it over so that the painting was out of sight. The last thing I wanted was another look at the Sparrow's sign.

Who was the Sparrow, I asked myself, and what did he want with my sister? What was he doing, throwing a rock at me, a rock with his sign on it? What was going on with Rachel? And what—_what_—did Jack do to Sarah?

When I started that afternoon out I only had two questions: Where was Sarah and why did she leave a note for Jack? Now, not more than an hour later, my questions had multiplied and, apart from the information from Rachel, I wasn't any closer to answering any of them.

The way I saw it, it all came down to this Sparrow person. I had no idea who, or what, he was but he seemed to be at the center of everything. According to Rachel, it was a possibility that my sister was with him—she must know who he was. And, of course, Jack had to know him, too. Why else would she have given him the Sparrow's sign and an address?

Quickly, I repeated the address to myself, just like Rachel had had me do. "460 Madison Ave." There was no way I was going to forget that.

I didn't know what exactly I would find at 460 Madison Avenue but I also knew I had to go there. With any luck, maybe Sarah would be there. I wondered if that was where Rachel had run off to. I wondered if that was where Jack would head next.

I stole a quick peek at my old pocket watch. Not much time had passed at all since I'd foolishly stormed out of Tibby's. It had been my goal, as soon as Rachel had first mentioned the Sparrow and his sign, to run back to Jack and demand that he tell me what exactly he knew. I'd been sidetracked both, fortunately, by Rachel's admission that she'd read Sarah's note over Jack's shoulder and, unfortunately, by an unseen rascal throwing a rock right where we stood.

There was only one thing to do now. I had to go back and find Jack. And then, after I did, we both needed to head on uptown.

Sarah needed us.

--

I think I underestimated Jack. I knew he was fast from all the times he'd run away from the Refuge's warden, and the way he could always lead the chase when the Delancey Brothers were after him, but I must've forgotten just how fast he could be. By the time I made it back to Tibby's he was already gone.

From my place at the window, watching the diners, I could see that the amount of people I knew sitting inside had whittled down some. They still occupied the two tables but their seats had changed: Swifty had taken up Jack's seat, talking to Crutchy and Mush; Blink, Skittery and the tiny, dark-haired girl were having an animated conversation over the last remaining piece of chicken.

Jack was missing, there was no doubt about that. Rachel, I determined after looking for Jack and finding him gone, hadn't bothered to return to the restaurant. For some reason, I didn't think she would have so I wasn't surprised to see that she wasn't there, either. I wondered vaguely where she'd run off to but only for a few seconds before I turned my attention to figuring out what to do next. I'd really thought that Jack would still be there and I was at a loss for what to do now that he wasn't.

I didn't go all the way inside the restaurant because I didn't want to get drawn into another conversation with some of the other guys. Crutchy, for one, would keep me there for hours if he could and I didn't have the time to spare.

Turning away from the window, I nervously stuck my hands in my pockets and stepped away from the restaurant. My fingers brushed against the crinkled scrap of paper that I'd stowed in there. Automatically, I recited, "460 Madison Avenue," as I waded my way through the afternoon crowd.

Just because Jack wasn't still at Tibby's, it didn't mean I couldn't find him. Like I told myself earlier, there were countless places where Jack Kelly could go—and, with Rachel's information, I added one more to that list. 460 Madison Avenue. If I didn't find Jack before I got there, I was pretty confident that I'd find him there.

As I continued on my journey uptown, I decided that I would stop over at the distribution center for the _World_ and just check to see if Jack had popped in over there. It was getting later, and it was possible that he'd gone off to sell some more papers.

I couldn't really be sure that he'd immediately started for the address that Sarah had left for him. He'd tried so hard to reassure me—or maybe he was trying to reassure himself, I don't know—that Sarah was fine that I found it hard to believe that he would rush off to follow an address, even if it was one that she'd left for him personally.

He was lying, I knew that. Even without Rachel's hint that Jack had a bigger part to play in Sarah's disappearance than I would have guessed, I knew he was lying to me. From the first moment, when he opened his mouth, all he did was lie and I made a mental note to call him out on it when I met up with him again.

After I asked him about the Sparrow, of course…

The walk from Tibby's over to Newspaper Row didn't take long at all. Most of it passed me by in a blur, and I barely remember any of it. My head was so full of imagined scenarios and fuzzy details that I arrived at the distribution center before I knew it.

The gate was open but there weren't many newsies milling around. I didn't need my pocket watch to know that this was not a prime selling time; only the youngsters, the poorest of the poor street kids and the scammers had arrived back at the center so early to try to grab a few of the last remaining papers from the morning edition. To them, especially the scammers, it may be late news but, if they could get a sucker to believe it was an early evening edition, then that was an extra penny in their pocket.

I knew right away that Jack wouldn't be there. In my opinion—and I'd probably never tell him this to his face, unless he made me angry enough first—Jack was the king of the scammers but he didn't need to pawn off old news to his customers. He had a God-given talent, or so he liked to claim, to "improve the truth" and sell any headline that the writers threw his way.

He'd go back to the distribution center when the evening edition was hot off the presses and not a second before. I don't know why I didn't remember that before.

But, just because Jack wasn't there, it didn't mean that none of the newsies I knew were there. There was one, a short boy with brown hair that stuck out from under his cap, pudgy cheeks and a wide gambler's grin. His cap was slung low, hiding his eyes, and his fingers were absolutely dirty.

He was crouching down low, a couple of papers stacked haphazardly at his feet. There were maybe five or six of them in total and one of his boots kept them from flying away in the wind as his fingers picked through the dirt and garbage that littered the gutters.

I recognized Snipeshooter immediately, and not only because he was looking for half-smoked cigars in gutter trash. There was something undeniable recognizable about Snipes, a certain oily quality that made me keep my hands in my pockets in fear that, if I didn't, he'd find his hands in there, instead.

But, if he was known for his love of a good Havana cigar and his sticky fingers, Snipeshooter had enough reputation: he loved to talk and, even better, he loved to listen, even if he wasn't supposed to hear whatever it was he was hearing.

In that way, Snipeshooter learned a lot. I just hope that, somehow, he might've learned something about Jack, or my sister. Or, if I was being real hopeful, maybe he learned something about the Sparrow.

Quickening my pace, I walked over to him. I tried to sound friendly as I greeted him.

"Hey, Snipes," I said, smiling earnestly at him as I looked down at him. "How have you been?"

The young boy lifted his head and his hand. Holding it out as if he was clutching some great prize, he showed me the ends of a cigar that he'd just found. It was three-quarters of the way smoked but, to a boy like Snipeshooter, if it had but one drag left on it, then it was a treasure.

He grinned cheekily up at me. "Can't complain," he said, his voice deeper than you would expect from a boy his size. "See, lookie what I got here."

"That's… nice," I said. I sounded flat but what else could I say? It was some stranger's old cigar and he was acting as if it was a nugget of California gold he'd fished out of the gutter.

Shaking my head, I decided to change the subject. The idea that he was actually going to smoke that after he found it in the garbage made my earlier hunger vanish entirely. "Um, Snipes? I got a question for you."

Snipeshooter stood up, listening to me as I talked. He slipped his bare foot back into his old, cracked boot before bending down and scooping up his fallen newspapers.

When he was standing straight again, he looked over at me and shrugged his shoulders. "Sure thing, Davey. Whatcha got to say? But make it quick," he added, shortly, "I got some papes I gotta move if I want to wash this smoke down with a sarsaparilla."

"Have you seen Jack at all today?"

It was the easiest way to begin the conversation, I figured, and, depending on his answer, I could then steer the conversation in any direction I need—even in the direction of Madison Avenue, if I had to.

"Jack? Sure. He just passed here, oh, ten minutes or so ago." Using the hand that was clutching tightly to his newfound cigar, he gestured behind him. "He only stopped for a second before runnin' that way. Said he was headin' on over to Brooklyn."

"Brooklyn?" I repeated. I could feel my eyebrows rise, matching the question in my voice. I hadn't expected that. "He said he was going to Brooklyn?"

Snipeshooter didn't seem too concerned by my surprise. Slipping the half-smoked cigar between his lips, he shrugged his shoulders and nodded up at me. "That's what I said, Davey," he said casually, his speech mumbled by the used cigar he was currently chewing on. He paused for a second before adding, "Hey, you got a match on ya?"

I shook my head glumly, not really listening to what he was asking. I was far too preoccupied with what he just told me.

Brooklyn?

"Ah, well. That's a shame, ain't it?" he said, removing the stub and waving it carelessly. Snipeshooter shrugged again and hit me in the thigh with his small stack of papers; he was a short boy whose aim was off but it didn't matter. "I gotta be goin'. I'll be seein' ya, eh, Davey?"

"What? Oh, sure. Thanks. Take care of yourself, Snipes," I said absently, barely even noticing his playful smack. If anything, all his action did was knock some of the loose dirt away from the knees of my trousers.

"Whatever ya say."

I waited until he had taken his unlit cigar and his handful of papers and had left before I shook my head and bowed my head, more confused now than I had been before. I'd been convinced that, if I didn't stumble across Jack on my way uptown, then I'd find him already waiting on Madison Avenue. But one conversation with a gossip monger like Snipeshooter had quickly squashed that theory—and I was left with another question:

What sort of reason did Jack have to go to Brooklyn when Sarah was _missing_?

I didn't realize that I'd forgotten to ask Snipes about Sarah and the Sparrow until he was long gone and I was, once again, all alone.

* * *

Author's Note: _Hey, guys!_ _Well, here we go. I couldn't decide on one of two directions for this chapter—both would eventually lead to the same place—and I finally decided on going with this. I just hope it works out as well as I want it to. And, as always, the idea of Brooklyn definitely leads to some intrigue, eh? _

_New chapter should be up soon, as well as a more coherent A/N and (possibly) another chapter of _Legacy_. I blame it on my new kitty (a black shorthair called Salem) and very little sleep. Yes, he's adorable but I'm definitely not when his little bell keeps me up all night ;)_

_-- stress, 04.30.08_


	7. In Which Unlikely Help is Found

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Sparrow**

_When Sarah disappears, it's up to David to go looking for her.  
With only a simple clue to where she could have gone, and the understanding that he's in over his head,  
it won't take him too long to discover that his sister wasn't the only one with a secret._

--

I think I entertained the idea of following Jack across the Brooklyn Bridge for maybe a half a second before I shook my head and started my walk uptown again. I didn't know why Jack was heading into Spot Conlon's territory when Sarah's note had expressively given him the Madison Avenue address, but that's what Snipeshooter had said.

Of course, that was assuming that Jack had been able to read Sarah's penmanship, and that Rachel had been honest with me when she told me what she saw. I didn't know what exactly to believe but I really didn't have the time to dwell on it.

Let Jack do whatever he needed to do in Brooklyn. I needed to head on over to 460 Madison Avenue and see whatever it was that Sarah wanted Jack to see.

Not that I was really looking forward to the hike. Though I wasn't all that familiar with the specifics of Madison Avenue, I knew that it wasn't part of the Lower East Side. It would take a couple of hours, depending on how fast I could make the trek, and I'd be out of my element for most of the walk. Someone like me—someone like Sarah—didn't really belong on Madison Avenue.

What, then, _was_ she doing there?

I just hoped that the answer to that question would be obvious when I finally made it to where I was going.

--

I've never really been one for directions. Before I started selling newspapers as one of Jack's partners, I never went more than a few blocks away from my apartment. It was a Jewish tenement and everything a good Jewish family needed could be found in the vicinity of our neighborhood—there'd never been a need to go off and explore.

And there I was, wandering around 6th Avenue, trying to find a street that I'd only ever read about in the papers. Madison Avenue, the center of all sorts of the City's advertisements. It wasn't a place for a boy like me, but I was determined to arrive there, no matter what it took. I couldn't help but be afraid that Sarah depended on someone making their way there.

Jack wasn't, that much was clear. He was off, going to Brooklyn for some unknown reason.

Well, good luck to him. I have a funny feeling that one of us will need it.

It wasn't hard to tell when I was out of my league. Though 6th Avenue was as busy as any of the streets I was used to, the people seemed… stiffer, almost. They barely brushed shoulders, every one of them keeping a few inches away from the closest person to them—even if they were walking together.

There weren't as many stalls or carts cluttering the way, either. Instead, there were shops along the avenue, fancy boutiques that I could barely afford to look at, let alone buy from. These were the stores where the fancy, rich citizens of the City—the Hearsts and the Pulitzers of the world—did their shopping. I was right when I said this wasn't a place where I belonged.

It only got worse, the further I made it midtown, and I knew I would be even further out of my league the more I walked. If it wasn't for Sarah's note and Rachel's obvious idea that I should help her, that I should save my sister from the Sparrow, I might've just turned around and gone back home.

This whole undertaking wasn't for the David Jacobs's of the world—this was tailor-made for people like Jack Kelly, people who knew what they were talking about and, if they didn't, for those who were able to bluff their way through everything else. The persuasive ones, the charming ones…

But, wait. Why couldn't it be for me? Jack was always the one that everyone looked up to, but why? Back during the strike, it'd been me who gave him those words. I was the wordsmith, he was just the mouth. Then again, wasn't I the 'Mouth'? The 'Walking Mouth', that's what Spot Conlon called me.

I could do it.

I just needed a bit of help first.

According to my watch, I'd been walking for almost two hours when I finally begrudgingly admitted to myself that I was lost. I knew I was going in the right direction but, apart from continually walking up 6th Avenue, I didn't have a clue where I was going. I didn't want to ask anyone for help, especially since I doubted any of those hoity toity people would even stop to listen to anything I had to say, but I was getting desperate.

My imagination was still running and all I could imagine was that Sarah was in trouble somewhere. I hadn't been able to let go of the image of some great brown bird swooping down, picking her up in its talons, pecking at her with its sharpened beak. It frightened me, probably more than I could ever say. If Rachel was convinced that the Sparrow was a bad guy, what could he be doing to Sarah—if, of course, he really did have her…

I couldn't wait to get to Madison Avenue. I only wished I knew how to.

There were no signs along 6th Avenue to tell me where to go, not that I'd expected to see any—but it would have been extremely helpful. Anyone purposely striding across midtown at this time of day probably had a good reason to be there and, as such, more than likely knew where exactly they were going.

I didn't and I was getting more and more frustrated about that with every step. My curiosity, and my sinking stomach, told me that, if I kept walking, I'd get there eventually but my common sense was having a hard time believing that. Instead, my common sense was saying that I should just turn back already. I was lost and Mama probably thought I was missing like Sarah was.

At the very least, I knew it would have been much smarter to find Jack and ask for his help. He owed me, and his knowledge of the city was impressive. Besides, he must know what there was to find at 460 Madison Avenue—or how to get there—if Sarah had offered him that address in her note.

Though my nagging common sense was coming up with every reason why I should just give up, my legs were playing dumb. They continued walking determinedly straight down 6th Avenue; I'd gone another three blocks before I realized that I was only going further and further away from the Lower East Side.

I stopped then, and I was just about to turn around in frustration when I saw someone sitting on the next corner. Just like me, he didn't belong on that fancy street and it was his obvious awkward placement that caught my attention. That, or the fact that he was slouched on the corner, his head staring upwards at the sky.

Maybe it was because he looked as out of place as me, but I felt an immediate connection with the strange boy. I don't know how I knew it or why exactly I thought it, but I was suddenly convinced that if anyone in this part of town could help me, it would be him.

If I would have seen him down on Newspaper Row or over at Tibby's I don't think I would've given him a second thought. But, seeing as how I was in a territory so different from the one I knew, it was so easy to spot someone who was much more like me than the nearest business man on 6th Avenue.

He looked tall enough, and he was probably closer to my age than he was to Les's. As I walked toward him, I could see that his fair hair was plastered to his head, his face was dust covered and his eyes were closed. He was wearing old black clothes, dusty and dirty with a hole in the knee. There was a small stack of newspapers sitting beside him—maybe it was that, the fact that he was a newsie like me, that made me feel so inclined to ask him for help.

"Hey, uh, excuse me?"

I sounded hesitant and I guess I was. He hadn't moved from his spot, despite all the people that came and went, and if he noticed that I'd stood in front of him, he didn't act like it.

In fact, after I spoke, the only thing I noticed was that his right eyebrow seemed to rise. Slowly, his eyes opened. "You need something?"

He didn't sound too happy that I'd bothered him, but his face remained calm even with his dark eyes wide open. His voice was low and it surprised me to hear that each word this boy said was said slowly and deliberately, as if he was thinking about each word he said.

I shrugged. "Actually, yes. I'm looking for Madison Avenue—"

"Madison Avenue, ya say?" he said, interrupting me in that same dull, slow voice.

I nodded. "Yeah. I'm trying to find 460 Madison Avenue but I can't find the cross street." I felt like an idiot admitting that I was lost but it didn't really matter. I wasn't doing this for me, anyway. I was doing this for Sarah. "Do you know where it is?"

"460 on Madison?" he asked, suddenly alert. His head was tilted to look up at me but he didn't stay in that position for long. He nodded to himself as I watched him gather his newspapers and stand up. His hands, I saw, were as filthy as mine ever were after a hard day of selling papes. "What you goin' to a place like that for?"

The way he suddenly seemed a lot more interested in what I had to say unnerved me. I took one step away, turning slightly so that I wasn't looking at him in his dirt-smudged face.

"It's nothing important. My… my friend," I improvised, "told me that there was something there that I'd like to see. And—"

"And your friend couldn't tell ya how to get there?"

I didn't like the way he said that. Maybe I was wrong in assuming that I could get a straight answer off of someone who spent his time sitting on a street corner midtown. After all, there _was _a stack of unsold _Journal_s sitting next to him—why wasn't he selling them to all the passersby instead of staring at the sky?

"If you didn't know how to get there, you could have just said so," I sniffed, aware of the fact that I sounded childish. Nothing was going my way, was it?

I think I struck a nerve with him because his calm face slowly stretched and widened until he was wearing a knowing smile.

"Hold your horses… I was just kiddin' with ya, pal. No worries, eh? Here," he said, pointing with one of his dirty hands down the street, "you're almost there. Just keep on goin' down this street until you hit 48th. Then you're gonna want to make a right and keep walkin' until ya hit Madison Avenue. Go left for a couple of blocks until ya make it to 460. Trust me, ya ain't gonna be able to miss it."

It never even struck me as odd that this street kid could tell me exact directions to Madison Avenue; I was just so pleased that _someone_ could.

"Really? Thanks!" I said, feeling strangely glad that finally I was getting somewhere. It had been so long since I left Les alone in the apartment and it had been frustrating that, apart from Rachel Harpen's information and Snipes' gossip, I knew precious little more than I did when I started out. I felt like I was so close to finding out what happened to Sarah that I could almost taste it.

The boy just nodded his response back it me before letting his newspapers drop back to the corner. He waited until they had settled before resuming his lounging seat beside them.

I took that as my cue to leave, so I did. Running the directions he had given to me through my head, I hurried on down 6th Avenue, keeping an eye out for 48th Street. I found it—surprisingly, admittedly—and there was no trouble finding Madison Avenue not much farther away.

I was almost there, and it felt exhilarating.

I don't what I was expecting to find when I arrived at 460 Madison Avenue but it sure wasn't what I found.

St. Patrick's Cathedral was massive, looming over me as I stood in front of it. I'd never been this close to the church before and it was awe-inspiring. It was made of this beautiful white marble, so bright that it made the rest of the City look dirty in comparison to it; the spires were so tall that the tips seemed to disappear into the clouds.

It seemed to dominate the street and there were so many people hovering around the church that I felt my stomach sink. How was I supposed to find Sarah in this crowd? Not only did I not know how she was dressed or how she wore her hair, but I wouldn't have been surprised to know that Sarah was trying her best to hide within the throngs of people. I wasn't Jack, after all, and she wasn't expecting me.

I scratched my head as I looked back and forth before heading up the few steps that led to the cathedral's entrance. It wasn't much higher than the street but I thought it might make it easier to spot Sarah if she really was stranding on Madison Avenue.

Countless people passed me by, either continuing on their way or visiting the cathedral to offer a quick prayer. I wasn't a Roman Catholic and it made me a little uncomfortable to be standing at the foot of this impressive church. I couldn't help but wonder again just why Sarah had chosen this place for Jack—she was no Catholic either.

I grew antsy, and my hands were back in my pocket. I tried to keep my head down while looking for a glimpse of my sister at the same time. It was difficult and it came as no surprise when, after close to an hour of fervently searching for her, I still had not seen Sarah.

There was a chance, I figured, that she could have already been to St. Patrick's and left when Jack failed to show up. If Jack really had gone to Brooklyn, like Snipeshooter said, then how long would Sarah have waited for him?

Of course, I was making assumption after assumption here. I'd assumed that something bad had happened to Sarah. I'd assumed that Jack was lying to me. And now… now I was _assuming _that Sarah had sent that note so that she could get Jack to meet her at the church. Was I right?

I don't know. But I think so. After all, why was I standing there if not to follow my hunches? My gut feeling had never steered me wrong before, whether it was telling me that Jack Kelly could be trusted or not or that an open door meant something more.

Then again, if Sarah had been to the church, maybe she'd never left. I hadn't actually gone inside the cathedral. For all I knew, she could be hiding out inside.

As soon as I thought that, I felt like an idiot for taking so long to realize that. I'd waited outside for almost an hour when there was that same chance that she could have been waiting inside all along. If Sarah felt comfortable walking around this part of town, and she felt comfortable meeting at a Catholic cathedral, why wouldn't she go inside to wait?

Turning around, I faced the big brown doors of St. Patrick's. They were eerily decorated and their color was very different from the rest of the cathedral. Just like the rest of the church, they were intimidating, yet welcoming in their own way.

I never had the chance to go inside and check to see if Sarah was inside. I was just about to pull on the heavy door handle when something else caught my attention.

"David, David, David… I didn't expect to find _you_ here."

My hand fell to my side, my intent immediately forgotten. That voice had all my attention.

Someone was talking to me—and it sure wasn't Sarah.

* * *

Author's Note: _Ah, can I just say how much I love leaving chapters with a cliffhanger. I wonder who that voice belongs to, hmm? But, hey, at least we know what was at the address, right? Now only a hundred other questions to go ;)_

_-- stress, 05.09.08_


	8. In Which the Enemy's Enemy is a Friend

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Sparrow**

_When Sarah disappears, it's up to David to go looking for her.  
With only a simple clue to where she could have gone, and the understanding that he's in over his head,  
it won't take him too long to discover that his sister wasn't the only one with a secret._

--

Whirling around, I followed the sound of the voice. It was female, and entirely unfamiliar to me. However, when I saw who it was who owned that voice, I recognized her at once and I was surprised: it was the girl who'd been sitting with Jack at Tibby's. What was shedoing here?

She was standing on the bottommost step of the great Cathedral, her arms crossed and her darkened eyes narrowed in surprise. She was smiling, and it was probably the strangest smile I'd ever seen. With her braided light brown hair still resting over her right shoulder and her head cocked to the side, she was smiling at me like the proverbial cat that ate the canary.

I didn't like it but there was no time for me to figure out what about her stance caught me off-guard. To be honest, just the fact that she had appeared out of nowhere—and the fact that, like Rachel, she knew my name—was enough to confuse me… and I didn't like that even more.

Forgetting for a moment why I was standing just out of St. Patrick's doorway, I balled my fists at my side and hurried down the steps. The girl didn't seem surprised at all that I was moving quickly towards her. I think she was actually waiting for me to do so.

"You weren't expecting me?" I asked, aware that my voice was louder than it should be. I lowered it. "Who are _you_?"

She didn't answer me—at least, not with words. Instead, she shook her head and motioned with her hand for me to join her on the step. I did, and then repeated, "I said, who _are _you?"

Again she shook her head, smiling crookedly over at me before turning around and walking purposely away from me. She had only taken a couple of steps before glancing over her shoulder at me. I hadn't moved at all—I was still confused about her appearance and I had no idea what she was doing there—and she motioned again for me to follow her.

I did, somewhat hesitantly. I kept my eyes wide open as she led the way, careful not to pass by my sister unaware. That would be the last thing I need, to have made my way all the way here only to miss meeting Sarah. However, I was so concerned with finding out who Jack's friend was that I wasn't paying as much attention as I could.

She was a quick walker, weaving through the crowd at such a pace that I barely remained on her tail. I kept her in my sight; so concerned with keeping up with her, I nearly ran right smack into her back when she stopped suddenly at the end of the street. She stood on the corner of—I looked up—Madison Avenue and E 51st St, her face upturned, curious and debating.

"Okay," she murmured, after a few seconds, "we'll go this way." She jerked her head to her right and started walking away from me again.

The quick glance at the Madison Avenue corner sign was enough to remind me what I was doing here. I took a couple of steps toward her, trying to catch up to her without going too far from the church. I waved my hand behind my back in an attempt to get her to understand that I just couldn't run off after her.

"But… my sister…"

She didn't even bother turning around to look at me. "She's not here, David."

I froze in place, too surprised to continue. "How do you know that?"

She shrugged, stopping to look at me. "Did you see her?" That same strange crooked smile was back.

"No."

"Then that's how I know." She paused, and when she spoke again, I could almost hear the obvious humor in her voice. "I'm not blind, you know. If I didn't see her, then she's not here."

It was faulty reasoning at best but there were other things on my mind at the moment—like how this girl, like Rachel, knew who I was… and who I was looking for. Besides, she didn't give me much of a chance to demand any sort of explanation. As I stood, motionless and confused on the corner, she was already heading down the cross street.

After she had made it partway down the street, she turned around and glared at me, her dark eyes flashing in mild annoyance. "Well, are you coming or not?" Her lips were drawn, thin and serious; she was done, for the moment at least, with finding me funny.

"Where?"

She didn't answer me. I guess she thought I should know—that, or she thought I wasn't worth the wasted breath.

Either way, I knew I couldn't let this girl grow frustrated enough that she left me there without any reason for her sudden appearance. She knew something, that much was clear—perhaps, even, she knew what was going on with Sarah. I couldn't miss my chance. I shuffled forward, utter curiosity hedging me towards her.

"Who _are _you?" I asked again. I tried to sound demanding but I only succeeded in sounding like I was whining.

"They call me Teller."

Oh, great. More nicknames. "Teller?"

She shrugged again. "It's what I do."

"All right then, do you want to _tell _me what you're doing here?"

At first, I didn't think that she was going to answer me. But, thankfully, she did.

"I saw the note that you handed Jack and I read it over his shoulder. You left Tibby's in such a rush, me and the others watched you go, but you didn't go alone. Jack followed you out. And—"

"And Rachel," I supplied.

"Yup, Rachel left right after you, too. And then I got up. I waited a minute or two, of course, before tellin' Crutchy that I needed to step out for some air. I almost wanted to follow Jacky's address but I never really got the chance. I was standin' in front of the restaurant, still curious about the way you and Jack acted to each other, when Rachel came runnin' back…"

I nodded, not surprised at all that Rachel was running. She'd disappeared from the alleyway so fast that she had to have been running.

Teller was still talking, talking so fast that it was kind of difficult to follow what she was saying.

"…all out of breath, she was, and she told me that she caught up with you. She told me that all about the Sparrow bein' involved, on account of him givin' your sister his sign. She was worried, and she wanted me to help you since she needed to head on home to her brothers. So here I am."

She said all of that in a rush, words tumbling out and disappearing before I had the chance to understand them. I got the gist, though, and I was glad that Rachel wasn't in trouble. I'd been worried, especially after that rock came flying into the alley out of nowhere.

But I was still concerned. That didn't explain _why _she was there, just how she got there. "That still doesn't explain why you're here," I said, sounding as suspicious as I felt. "Why do you want to help me?"

Teller looked surprised that I was after more of an answer than the one she had already given me. It took her a moment to come up with another one—but I didn't mind. I waited, my arms crossed over my chest in a mockery of her earlier stance. I was frustrated; it was getting very bothersome, being the only one who had no idea what was really going on.

Finally she said, "I really don't like the Sparrow."

And that surprised me.

"You know him?"

"I know of him," she said, frowning. "But enough of that, we have to find Jack. If anyone, I'm sure he'll know where your sister is." She paused again, the edge of her lip curling upwards. "That's what you're doing here, right, David? Looking for your sister?"

I ignored the implications that laced her tone. Instead, I mirrored her frown at the mention of Jack. Scoffing slightly, I told her, "I doubt I'm gonna get any answers out of Jack. I got it on good authority," I said, making sure not to mention that my source was the gossip of the lodging house, "that he was heading off to Brooklyn. He's not looking for Sarah."

That rattled her just a bit. At the very least, she stopped walking. Turning around, there was uncertainty written across her face. "Brooklyn?" she said abruptly, quickly changing direction and walking purposely forward. She hurried her pace as she double-backed down the cross street.

I hadn't expected that response. "Wait! Where are you going _now_?"

"Brooklyn." Teller shook her head. "I should've known."

I let that remark slide as I hurried to catch up to her. If she was going back downtown, she would have to pass St. Patrick's Cathedral again. Despite her flimsy assurance that Sarah wouldn't be waiting there, I wanted one more look around Madison Avenue. "Why Brooklyn?"

"Are you brainless, Dave?" she muttered, her walk more of a mix between a trot and a jog. "And they told me you was smart."

I was insulted but I decided to save that indignation for a later time. Right then, my first priority was trying to learn what Teller meant. She seemed to know a lot more about Sarah's predicament than I did; I couldn't take her for granted.

"That doesn't mean I know everything," I mumbled under my breath, unable to refrain from doing so. "And I don't understand why you need to go to Brooklyn all of a sudden."

"First of all, you mean why _we _have to go to Brooklyn… and, second, you just told me that's where Jack was, right? And the chase begins with Jack." She shook her head again, fiercer this time, her braid whipping around until it was settling on her left shoulder. "I should've known, though. Brooklyn," she snorted, obviously aware of something that I wasn't—which, as every minute of this strange day passed, was getting to be more and more.

"Listen… Teller, is it?" She nodded and I tried not to scowl. "Teller. Okay. Listen, it's late and I've been out looking for my sister for hours. My parents have got to be worried stiff by now and… and…"

"And what, David?" she asked, and the way she spat out my name made me feel like I was being scolded. "Are you really goin' to go back home to your ma and tell her that you had a chance to track your sister down but you went back 'cause you was tired?"

I let her tone wash over and felt like the guilty cad she obviously thought I was. I grimaced, and I knew she won. "So… Brooklyn, huh?"

"Eventually," she said shortly, her lips pursed in mild disapproval. "I gotta admit, you're kinda right. It _is_ late. 'Sides, I'm sure ol' Jacky Boy is gonna stick it out with Conlon until the Sparrow flies the coop." She paused again and glanced up at the sky. It was growing darker, the sun hidden by a mass of clouds as it dropped.

Nodding to herself, she announced, "We got some time, at least."

Then Teller turned around again and I gave up. This time, I just followed her.

--

We didn't walk that far, and we were silent the entire time. I had a hundred questions for her: Who was she really? How did she know Jack? How did she know _me_? What did she have against the Sparrow? Why did she care about what happened to Sarah? And why… why was it so darn obvious that Jack headed off to Brooklyn instead of Madison Avenue?

I had a hundred questions for her but there was something in Teller's newly adopted cautious and guarded expression that told me that I wouldn't be getting answers from her. I left it at that, figuring that I would know _something _after we got to wherever she was taking me.

One thing was for sure, we weren't going to Brooklyn. It was definitely too late to start that journey, I knew, but I couldn't imagine where she was taking me, either. I wasn't familiar with this area at all; except for knowing that I had a couple hour walk ahead of me when I finally headed home, and that the St. Patrick's Cathedral was now behind me, I had no idea where I was.

Teller seemed to, though, and I was more than happy to let her take the lead.

Unlike me, she seemed to know exactly where she was going. She continued to dodge in and out of crowds of people, moving at such a speed that I envied her. This was the most walking I'd done since lessons started up again and I could feel the beginning of raw blisters on my heels; my shoes were too small as they were, and I wished I'd used some of my earnings on new shoes rather than the used paperbacks I'd purchased.

I was aching to sit, and my earlier hunger had returned full force. We'd passed the church again and, unsurprisingly, there was no sign of Sarah. Without another lead, my panic at her disappearance had dulled to a nervousness that was easier to push aside in favor of other emotions.

Like curiosity at where Teller was taking us…

I was pretty sure that we weren't walking toward the Brooklyn Bridge. It must have bothered her to admit that I was right, but it was already well past dusk now; there was no way we could make it to Brooklyn before the lodging house on Poplar Street hit curfew.

I also didn't think that Teller was leading me back towards the Lower East Side. We'd taken a couple of turns off of Madison Avenue so nothing around me was familiar, but it didn't seem like we were heading in that direction. If anything, I felt like we were going across the island, not down it.

Huffing, I realized that, sometime when I was grousing silently to myself, Teller had widened the gap between us considerably. In fact, she was already at the end of the block, crossing the street.

However, as I started to walk quicker in a bid to catch up to her—ignoring the protests from my sore feet—I realized that she'd paused once she made it to the other side. She wasn't even looking back at me, either. Instead, she was glancing up at a rather worn building.

Its façade was faded, and the windows were grubbier than the fancy buildings we'd left behind us on Madison Avenue. It looked like a forgotten building, but there was a sense of care that surrounding this building. It was well lived in, and probably well loved.

After crossing the street myself, I joined her in front of the building. For the first time since I told her about Brooklyn, I asked her a question.

"Where… where are we?"

She smiled over at me—it was strange to see that she was almost taller than I was—and raised her eyebrows. It was a skeptical look, and I wondered if she was still questioning the assessment that I actually had a brain.

"Why, it's the Midtown Lodging House, of course." Her teeth were actually visible, her smile was so wide—wide, and condescending at the same time. I wasn't too sure I liked Teller. "What, did you think I was gonna make you sleep on the street tonight?"

I shook my head slowly. I didn't know this girl at all but, honestly, I wouldn't have put it past her to make me do just that.

* * *

Author's Note: _Well, that was a bit of a break. I don't know what it is, but I always seemed to get writer's block around this time of year. Maybe it's because it's getting so nice out… it's no fun to stay inside when the sun finally comes out to play ;) And, of course, my annual case of sunburn courtesy of my Memorial Day beach trip kept me a little out of commision lately... heh._

_Finally, though, I decided it was time to get back to some of my writing. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Happy June everybody, woot!_

_-- stress, 06.01.08_


	9. In Which a Nickel is Everything

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Sparrow**

_When Sarah disappears, it's up to David to go looking for her.  
With only a simple clue to where she could have gone, and the understanding that he's in over his head,  
it won't take him too long to discover that his sister wasn't the only one with a secret._

--

"Come on, let's go."

I hesitated and, for some reason, that made her laugh.

"What's the matter? It ain't gonna bite, you know. It's just a building." Nodding at the entrance, she added, "Go on. It's only gettin' darker out here."

I didn't want to admit that I'd never slept inside a lodging house before—and, if I was planning on doing so, it would have been the one where I knew the other fellas—so I brought up a different complaint. "I didn't bring any money with me. I can't afford to pay the lodging fare."

The look Teller gave me was one of utter disbelief and total disdain. She snorted and turned her eyes downward. I could see that her lips were moving, but wordlessly; if she said anything at all, it wasn't meant for me to hear. Without even glancing back up at me, she shoved her right hand into the front pocket of her skirt and drew something out before tossing it at me.

I wasn't expecting the throw and whatever it was that she threw hit me square in the chest before dropping to the cobblestones. I fumbled for it but missed, feeling my cheeks heat up as I hurriedly bent over to retrieve the small, round dark object. Teller sighed; I heard _that_.

My fingers were clumsy and it took me two tries to pick up the item. At first I thought it was a stone and I immediately thought about the painted rock from this afternoon—had it only been afternoon? It seemed like an eternity since I'd first heard of the Sparrow—but it wasn't a stone; it was a worn, rubbed down coin. From the look of it, I think it might've been a nickel.

"Here David," she said, nodding at me when I stood back up, "you take my last nickel. I'll spot you your fare." In the glow of the gas lamp I could see that there was a steely look in her dark eyes that told me that she was not prepared to take no for an answer.

With that nickel in my hand, I felt like a cad, robbing the girl of the last of her money. Under normal circumstances I would have been the one to offer up my nickel—but these were not normal circumstances and, from a failure to plan ahead, I'd left home this afternoon without a penny in my pocket. I may not have wanted to sleep in an unfamiliar lodging house but it was definitely preferable to sleeping on the streets.

"Thank you," I mumbled, folding my fist around the coin. The feel of the smooth coin against my palm suddenly reminded me of what exactly Teller had just said. "Wait a minute… did you just say your _last _nickel?"

"Yeah, and you're lucky to get that much. Crutchy musta been all out of sorts when he realized I'd stiffed him for the bill over at Tibby's."

I waved my hand urgently, as if that would stall the image of Crutchy's crushed, yet accepting, expression from flashing before my eyes. "No, no," I said, shaking my head, "that's not what I meant. If this is your last nickel, how do you plan on paying for your lodging fare here tonight?"

She stared at me then and the way her eyes seemed to search my face made my stomach twist out of nerves. I wasn't used to girls—one of Jack's, especially—looking at me like that. I impressed myself, though, by not turning away; instead, I held the nickel back out to Teller. I couldn't make her sleep out on the street.

Her laugh was low and harsh, as if she couldn't believe what I was doing. "Are you mad, Dave? I don't plan on stayin' here tonight."

"Why not?"

"'Cause it's a boys' home, that's why. I ain't allowed past the front door." She laughed again and I felt very foolish. I should have known that.

"But," I argued, trying not to let her see that her laugh bothered me, "I thought you were going to go to Brooklyn with me."

"I am. I can't let a guy like you walk off into Brooklyn all by his self. It'd be murder!"

I resented her implications. I don't know why she thought I couldn't manage it by myself in Brooklyn. I knew Spot Conlon and, if I was being honest, he didn't look as tough as everyone made him out to be. I was sure I'd be fine, especially if I was meeting Jack when I got there. Jack knew how to handle Spot.

I was just about to argue further when I decided that it would be rude to continually fight with a young lady—even if that young lady was a street girl like Teller obviously was—especially one who was being so kind to me, even lending me her last nickel.

The daring look on her face had nothing to with my decision, of course.

I sighed and tried to approach the situation logically. Let no one say that all those hours spent in lessons did me no good. "So you aregoing to go to Brooklyn with me? You're just not staying here?"

"Exactly."

"Where are you going to stay?" My hand was still outstretched and I nodded my head at the nickel being gripped by my fingers. "Here, I can't take this. I can't let you sleep out on the streets because of me."

Teller waved her hand absently at me, ignoring the nickel I held out towards her. "Look, I got a place of my own to get to. Don't you worry about me, alright?"

"Are you sure? I'd feel awful if I put you out by taking your money."

"I told you not to worry about it, didn't I? I'm a big girl, Dave, I'll survive just fine." There was determination on her face as she walked behind me and, without me expecting her to, placed her dirty, thin hands on the small of my back.

"Now go on inside," she said, pushing me forward with more strength than I would have thought she had. "There's a big desk at the end of the hall, it's run by a guy called MacCauley. He can be a bum sometimes but don't pay him no mind. Just give him the nickel, give him your name, then get out of his way. The stairs'll be right there," she continued, letting her hands drop once I was positioned immediately in front of the entryway. "Then you go on up 'til the third floor and pray you get a bunk when you get there."

My head was spinning at the pace of her directions but only one thing really stuck out for me: Teller seemed to know an awful lot about the layout and the inner workings of this lodging house. I didn't say anything to her about that, though; instead, I tucked that observation into the back of my mind for use later on.

She was obviously a tricky street girl at that. It was no wonder she got along with Jack.

"Okay," I said agreeably, and a touch bewildered, as I stared up at the front of the building. For some reason, it suddenly seemed even more impressive than the great doors of St. Patrick's Cathedral.

I turned around and was surprised to see that she had already started to walk away from me. I called to her retreating back. "So, should I meet you somewhere tomorrow?"

Teller spun on her heel and, in that moment, I saw a strange look pass across her face. I wasn't sure what it meant but it seemed to be the opposite of her earlier humor. It was a dark expression that lasted for only a second, there and gone again. In the next second, she was smirking over at me again.

"You don't have to find me, David. I'll find you."

She offered me one last laugh and a nod before whirling around and running away. Where ever she was going, I guess she didn't want to miss curfew.

Neither did I, actually. I wasn't too familiar with the rules of a lodging house, but Teller had told me enough in her quick set of orders to make me very wary of this MacCauley. Even if I was only going to stay here for the night, I didn't want to get on his bad side.

I tried not to think about what I was doing. It wasn't like me, taking off and staying out all night, but I had to do it. More now than ever, I was certain that Sarah was in trouble. There was no way that I could return home without her. How could I explain that to Mama? Teller had been right—if there was a chance that Brooklyn held all the answers, I had to go there.

Teller was right about another thing, too. As I entered the dreary front room of the lodging house, dragging my feet as I hesitantly moved forward, I could see that her details were correct. There _was_ a hallway, and I could just make out a desk at its end. I had no doubt that some brute of a man would be manning it; after all, what sort of a caretaker could make such on impression on a girl like Teller for her to call _him _a bum?

There were some details that she'd left out, though. The place was small, cluttered with odds and ends, and full of knickknacks. I almost tripped on a pile of sticks that was stacked just inside, and it was not difficult to pick out the strewn bits of broken toys and dropped clothing that littered the hallway. It was very different from the house that Jack and the other guys stayed out.

I tread carefully down the hallway, making sure I didn't step on anything. It would be very difficult to walk all the way to Brooklyn on a broken ankle.

It got darker the farther I went. There were a handful of candles, half spent and covered in dribbles of wax, that lined the hallway; the dancing flames became more noticeable as I walked. It must've grown dark outside as the sun finally set for the night.

The hall ended abruptly. My eyes had grown accustomed to the dark and the flare of light from an oil lamp off to the side almost blinded me. I blinked in surprise at the sudden flash and, in a fit of stupidity, I walked straight into the secondhand desk that was stationed right there.

"Hey, kid, take it easy! That oak don't come cheap, ya know."

I blinked again and this time, when I opened my eyes, I could make out a rather large bulky figure standing behind the desk. Narrowing my eyes, I could make out some of his features. He was tall and very nearly as wide. This man was burly, and he had thick, black curls that covered his head. His eyes were small, dark in the lamplight, and almost hidden in his large, flat face. With hands as large as a spade, he was wagging his fingers at me.

I gulped. "I'm sorry. I… I was just—"

He slammed his hand against the top of his precious oak desk with such a force that I was surprised it didn't crumble under the pressure. "You lookin' for a place to stay?"

I nodded, but I guess that wasn't enough of an answer for this man.

He smiled at me, one that made him even more intimidating. "Can't hear a nod, boyo. Speak up!"

I read once that dogs could smell fear, that sharks could smell a drop of blood of ocean and go after its prey. Well, nowhere in that schoolbook did they mention how perceptive this man MacCauley could be. He must've known that I hadn't wanted to be there as it was and he was making it even more difficult for me.

"I… I was told that I could stay here." The nickel Teller gave me was still in my hand and I held it up as if it were my saving grace. "I have lodging fare."

His grip was gentler than I would have thought; at the very least, he didn't break _all_ ten of my fingers when he snatched the nickel out of my hand.

Holding it up, I had the feeling that he was checking to make sure it wasn't a dead coin. I had to fight back another gulp when it took him longer than I would've expected to examine it. What would I have done if it was a fake?

MacCauley only made me wait for a few seconds longer before slamming it down on the counter and grunting. With another flick of his large hands, he flipped his ledger open and flicked it to a random page.

Teller had told me to give him my nickel, give him my name and get out. Well, I'd already offered him my lodging face. Now for my name; I could only assume that was what he was waiting for. "My name is David Jacobs," I said.

"You got a home, David Jacobs," he asked me, placing the point of his pencil to the ledger. "You got a family?"

I couldn't understand what that had to do with anything. "Yes?" I'd meant my words to come out assertively, perhaps with a touch of defiance, but I only sounded confused.

MacCauley's grin was even more lethal than that of the wildest of strays. He extended his pointer finger and jabbed it at a sign by his desk. I hadn't seen it before and, with this man pointing it out, I took the opportunity to read it.

"'No runaways'?" I asked. That's what the sign said.

"Damn right," he growled, jabbing his finger again in emphasis. "You got a home, you ain't welcome here. This here is a lodging house for thems who need it. I can't be bothered by you runaways. One bad night at home and you come runnin' here and I won't stand for it." He sniffed as he lowered his hand. "And I'll be takin' your nickel, too. Teach you a lesson, kid."

I was just about to say something in response—I wasn't sure what I would have said at any rate—but, before I had, someone called out, their voice coming from the staircase.

"Hey, Mac. What's going on?"

Even though I knew the voice wasn't directed at me, I couldn't help it. I turned my head and looked over my shoulder. Even if I wasn't sure that it was one I'd heard before, I would have done anything for an excuse not to look at MacCauley anymore.

My hunch was right. I recognized that slow, deliberate voice immediately, though I'd only heard it once before, and the sight that met me only confirmed what I thought. Standing on the bottommost step of the staircase was that same dirt-smudged blond boy I'd met earlier today while on my hunt for Madison Avenue.

He looked over at me, glancing up at me through his long, thick eyelashes, and grinned. It was a cheeky grin, but also very, very false. "Well, look at that," he said and, like before, every word was said softly, delicately. "Ain't it a small world?"

Indeed.

* * *

Author's Note: _And now it's time to delve back into the _Newsies _fandom :) I know I've been devoting a lot of time to other fandoms—_Labyrinth… Twilight…_—but I doubt I'll ever be able to go for long without writing about my favorite newsboys. Especially this story—David is such a fun character to experiment with. I can't wait to go even further with his adventure in this story!_

_Thank you to Biddy, Rae, Swindler, Isabella Estates and Dreamless-Mermaid for your amazing reviews! They truly make my day when I receive them :)_

_-- stress, 06.27.08_


	10. In Which David Ignores the Suspenders

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Sparrow**

_When Sarah disappears, it's up to David to go looking for her.  
With only a simple clue to where she could have gone, and the understanding that he's in over his head,  
it won't take him too long to discover that his sister wasn't the only one with a secret._

--

The sudden change that came over MacCauley was astonishing. His beady eyes met those of the blond boy and widened considerably; they weren't as hidden in his face now. Then, unless, I was mistaken, he attempted to smile—genuinely, too. He looked even _uglier_. "Nothin', Alfie. Just another runaway lookin' to stay."

This boy, this Alfie, cocked his head and looked over at me. There was a lamp stationed behind him, giving him a glow that surrounded him entirely. It was actually kind of impressive.

"A runaway, Mac?" he asked slowly, shaking his head as he took the last step down and approached MacCauley's desk. "He don't look like no runaway to me."

Turning, he looked at me and, this close, I could see that he had a heavy-lidded stare. It was more pronounced in the darkness—I hadn't noticed it when we'd met out on the street. It was somewhat eerie. "You," he said abruptly, addressing me. "You'se a runaway, are ya?"

His heavy accent startled me; I'd been so used to the careful way I'd heard him speak before. It took me a minute before I remembered to respond. "No," I told him, and then I felt guilty for lying. No matter my reasons, I _had _left home and my parents had no idea to where I'd gone.

"Not really," I confessed. "I _do _have a home, a nice one, but it's far from here. I stayed out too late and I'm planning to cross over into Brooklyn come morning. It made no sense for me to go home," I explained, "and my friend told me that I should stay here."

"Your friend again, eh?" His eyebrow rose. "He's quite the teller, ain't he?"

His question surprised and, well, confused me. How did _he_ know about Teller? "What?"

"Your friend, the one you keep goin' on about? First he told ya to go to that church, now he's tellin' ya to come here. A real teller, see?"

Put that way, he made sense. For a moment there, I thought he knew a lot more about my present predicament than would've been possible.

"Yes," I said, sure that my strange smile of relief was visible even by the meager light. "You could say that again."

Alfie returned my smile—his lit up his entire face—before turning back to look up at MacCauley. "Well, you heard him, Mac. Ain't no runaway, is he? Just a good kid, lookin' for a bed for the night." He glanced over his shoulder at me. "Hey, you got a nickel?"

I nodded. "Yes. I gave it to him already."

There was a loud smack that almost made me jump. In what I hoped was a playful manner, Alfie had slapped the top of the oak desk with his open palm; it was almost as if he was mocking MacCauley's earlier actions. But he hadn't been standing on the step that long, had he?

"Look at that, Mac," Alfie said, "he even paid up in advance, and that's more than I can say for half the bums currently in a bed. 'Sides, look at this kid, get a glimpse of his honest mug"—just in case, I immediately tried to make my face as sweet and innocent as I could—"and then tell me you're gonna deny him a place for the night."

To my surprise, MacCauley shook his big head. He held up his hand and, after squinting a bit, I could see that he was holding my nickel up. Only a smidge of it was visible, the rest covered by his thick fingers. I couldn't understand what he was doing. Was he giving me my nickel back? Oh no. I was going to have to sleep on the street after all, wasn't I?

He closed his hand over the nickel before dropping it. He must have had a money drawer open because I heard the nickel hit against something—it made a clinking sound—before he slammed the drawer shut.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Alfie," he said then, and he didn't really sound all _that _sarcastic. I could feel the heat of his glare as he turned to look at me. I made sure to keep my eyes on Alfie. "Why don't you get him out of here? Show him up if you're so keen on him stayin'."

Alfie grinned cheerfully. "Good doin', Mac. I knew you had it in ya." He gave a little laugh before nodding at me. It was a good thing I was facing him or I would never have seen it. "Come on. The bunkroom's at the top of the stairs."

Without another word, he started right back up the staircase. I didn't want to be left alone with MacCauley—as lodging house superintendents go, he was nothing like old Mr. Kloppman—so I hurried to catch up with him. He wasn't walking all that fast and, amazing myself, I was able to catch up with him about halfway.

He heard my heavy footsteps as I carefully treaded the stairs behind him and, pausing a few steps away from the top, he turned his head so that he was looking over his shoulder at me. "Say, what's your name?"

This time I was prepared. "David."

"Alfie," he offered, and I could see his was still grinning.

I nodded at him, not knowing what else to say. He seemed to be expecting more from me, but I wasn't sure what. I must've looked real sheepish or embarrassed or something because, after a few seconds of him looking straight at me, Alfie chuckled to himself before turning his head back to face forward. He took the stairs two at a time and was out of my sight before I'd known it.

Shaking my head, I followed him up. I was silently cursing Teller—if it hadn't been for her, I'd be halfway home.

I took my time, going up the rest of the steps. The stairs were narrow and, like the hallway on the floor below, littered with who knows what. I almost slipped once on something that was very slick but, at the last minute, I caught my balance and, thankfully, reached the bunkroom without falling all the way back down.

The bunkroom was as filled as the one in Manhattan and I'm sure there were more bunks here. There was barely any space between them, and what little space there was was filled with discarded clothing and old newspapers. I saw that I would have to be careful up here, too.

At first glance, it seemed as if there wasn't a single bunk that was empty. I felt my heart drop—after all that I'd been through, I'd forgotten to pray like Teller had told me to do. There was no bunk for me.

"And whatever is the matter, David?"

I turned my head at the sound of my name. I'd thought that Alfie, after he ran ahead, had gone on to his bunk… but he hadn't. He was standing just past the entryway to the cramped room, his arms crossed over his chest and a knowing smirk on his dusty face. I wondered if he ever washed up at the pump or if he was always this dirty.

It only vaguely registered that his manner of speaking had changed again. The accent wasn't as pronounced and his grammar had improved greatly. It was odd. Was the poor, obnoxious street kid all an act, or was he trying to make fun of me by trying to sound smart?

I shook my head, shrugging. "I guess I'm a little late. I can't find a bunk."

"Is that all?" The laugh Alfie had, I realized, was very condescending; I didn't care for it at all. I could feel myself frowning but I doubt he noticed. He had already pushed off and away from the wall, walking in the opposite direction from where I was still standing. Shaking his head though he didn't turn around, he said, "Here, follow me. I'll find you a place to have a nice lie down."

He was strutting forward, his head tilted upwards. I found it amazing how he didn't even have to watch where he was stepping. Me, my eyes were glued to the floor as I did what he said and trailed him across the bunkroom.

He knew where he was going, that much was obvious. Just like Teller had done when she was leading me up and down Madison Avenue, Alfie weaved in and out through all of the bunks, searching out one that was empty. I could barely keep up with him and I could feel myself lagging behind.

"So, did you find it?"

I wasn't expecting him to speak again; the sound of his voice cut through the mild chatter of the bunkroom, startling me. "I'm sorry. Find what exactly?" Was he talking about a bunk? Or something else entirely?

I hate being so tired. It makes me feel stupid.

"The church. Madison Avenue? Did you find it?"

I knew he recognized me but it was a little off putting just how much of our brief meeting he'd remembered. Then again, I couldn't talk. I'd known him from his voice alone.

"Yes, I did actually. Your directions were very handy."

Alfie looked pretty smug as he rounded the corner and headed quickly down the far end of the bunkroom. "I guess you could say I know all about the streets 'round here," he boasted as he navigated his way past the bunks. I couldn't understand exactly where he was going; every bunk I'd seen so far had an occupant, either sleeping or lying with their eyes open.

Their eyes were open, I noticed, but none of them were looking at us. It was almost as if me and Alfie were invisible. Nobody was paying us any mind as we made our way throughout the room.

"Gotcha," he chirped suddenly and I couldn't figure what he meant. I was just glad that he'd stopped bragging before he'd really begun.

Pointing his finger, he gestured at one particular set of bunks in the middle of the room. One particular set ofbunks that had an empty.

Thank goodness.

The bottom bunk was occupied by a small boy who was probably younger than Les. He was sleeping and I had to wonder just how late it was. I knew I was exhausted and I had to stifle a yawn as I spied the youngster snoozing. Oh, how I envied him.

But the top… the top bunk was definitely empty—if only for the moment. It had a distinctly slept in look to it, from the way the old blanket was haphazardly tossed across the foot of the bed to the way that the pillow was bunched. Not to mention the fact that there was a pair of faded brown suspenders hanging off the edge.

He approached the bunks and patted the empty top bunk invitingly. There was no mistaking the assuredness in his smirk. "See, David, I told you I'd find you a bunk. Stick with me, kid, and you'll go far."

Alfie, I had to admit, was a charming, charismatic sort of boy. In short, he was—as Jack would say, and he should know—completely full of it. And I couldn't help but like him for it, even if I had no idea what the deal with him was.

At the very least, he had—whether he had meant to or not—taken on the superintended and gotten me to be allowed to stay, then he'd found me a bunk. Sure, it was a bunk with a pair of suspenders hanging off of it but it _was _a bunk. If he didn't seem bothered that he was putting me up in another boy's bed, then I didn't care either.

To be honest, I was too tired to care anyway. As soon as I saw an empty bunk I knew I needed to lay down in it. Besides, what's the worst that could happen?

Sure, some big lug could come along and tell me to get out of his bunk… so what? At this point, I would happily sleep on the floor.

"Thank you," I said earnestly before I hurriedly—and a bit clumsily, I'll admit—climbed up the ladder. I don't think he expected me to move up there so quickly but I was already settling back in the bunk before he noticed I'd gone up. I didn't even bother taking my shoes off as I leaned back and closed my eyes. "This is perfect," I murmured, not even bothering to speak up enough for him to hear me.

He did, though. "Don't mention it," Alfie replied. "'Sides, who knows? There might come a day when I need some help. I just hope you remember all the good I'd done for you if I come a askin'."

"Of course," I answered immediately. If ever I owed someone a debt, it would be Alfie for helping me this evening. What good would it do to plan on meeting Jack in Brooklyn if I didn't survive the night in Midtown first?

He laughed again—it still sounded condescending to me—as he smacked the edge of the bunk. It gave the whole structure a bit of a shake but, when I opened my eyes again to make sure that I hadn't fallen, I realized that Alfie was already gone.

Marveling at his pace, I couldn't decide who of everyone I'd encountered was the quickest today: Rachel, Jack, Teller or Alfie. I was pretty envious of all of their speed. If I could move that fast, I might've been able to outrun any of them—or, perhaps, even Sarah—in an attempt to wrestle some more answers out of them.

But not now. My feet were sore, my legs achy and my stomach empty. My head did feel pretty nice against that small, lumpy pillow and the coarse blanket underneath me wasn't as bothersome as it might've been if I wasn't so darn exhausted. I could imagine how far I'd walked together—and how much I would have to go tomorrow.

I swallowed back a groan. I'd have to face tomorrow when it came; until then, I would just try to sleep.

I closed my eyes again as I lay very still, waiting to fall asleep. It was strange, though. I couldn't move for nothing but I definitely couldn't fall asleep straight away.

At first I thought it was because I was still so worried about my sister. I was, of course—otherwise I wouldn't been sleeping in my own bed instead of in this borrowed one—but that wasn't it, not really.

Then I thought it might've been because I was so hungry—my stomach sure growled enough for that to be the reason for my sleeplessness—but no… I've been hungrier.

I couldn't put my finger on what it was and the mad urge to find what was keeping me from falling asleep only served to keep me awake.

But then, just as I was finally beginning to nod off, it hit me.

It was… it was too _quiet_.

I almost didn't believe it myself, but it was true. The quiet was preventing me from falling asleep.

Shaking my head as I stared up at the darkened ceiling, I wondered just how crazy Sarah's leaving has made me.

* * *

Author's Note: _And here we go! Another chapter and another original character -- I have to admit, it's actually kind of fun to create characters, even if their role is quite small. I enjoy watching David interact with people around him... I really do feel bad for this incarnation of him ;) He should definitely get his sleep while he can -- he's going to need it!_

_-- stress, 07.11.08_


	11. In Which David Pops the Question

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Sparrow**

_When Sarah disappears, it's up to David to go looking for her.  
With only a simple clue to where she could have gone, and the understanding that he's in over his head,  
it won't take him too long to discover that his sister wasn't the only one with a secret._

--

I mean, you would think that in a bunkroom of this size, with so many full bunks, that there would be some ruckus. Perhaps a little racket. But there wasn't. If anything, I could hear a faint hum echoing throughout the wide room, a mixture of a few snores and a snuffle or two. And that was it.

As I lay on the flat bunk, my head sunken into an unfamiliar pillow, I wondered why that was. This level of quiet seemed unnatural, almost like there was some higher power enforcing it. My thoughts immediately turned to MacCauley—he seemed the sort of caretaker to demand silence.

Following the others' lead, I tried to be as quiet as I could. It wasn't difficult; despite being known as a 'Walking Mouth', I found I had nothing I wanted to say, or anyone to tell it to. For once, silence came easy to me.

I let my thoughts drift to my sister as I closed my eyes to block out the faint candlelight that flooded the bunkroom. I was sleeping in Midtown, spending my first night in a lodging house. Where was she? Was she really with the Sparrow? And if she was, then why… _why _was he so interested in her? And, more than anything, who _was _he?

Sarah was a bit of a free spirit, an outspoken girl, I knew, but she'd never done anything so out of character before. While Papa encouraged her and Mama humored her, she knew her role and she knew her place. Good Jewish girls stayed home—first with their mothers, then with their husbands.

Her brief romance with Jack Kelly was a fling, I think everyone knew that. It was kept as chaste as possible—under Mama's eagle eye, that was extremely possible—as if it was an experiment, a chance for Sarah to get over this childishness before she graduated to full-fledged womanhood. Jack was as good a choice as any; my parents found him charming and his flighty behavior ensured them that this was a fling that would not last.

When Sarah told the family that Jack's visits to the apartment would be scarce, I think both of my parents sighed in relief. Their romance had carried on longer than expected and, for that, I was glad. I'd been nervous that, when their courtship ended, so would my friendship with Jack. Lessons had already put a strain on that friendship but, whenever me and Les met Jack at the Distribution Center, he was the same as always: cocky but kind and entirely full of it.

For just a moment, my thoughts switched from Sarah's simple beauty to Alfie's dusty, dirty face. Cocky yet kind, just the way I always thought of Jack. In control, without a trace of fear or doubt that his every word would be believed… I don't know, Jack and Alfie seemed like two peas in a pod. Very much the same.

And, in their own ways, I could see the similarities between MacCauley and Kloppman. While I definitely preferred the harsh wisdom that Kloppman's obvious age awarded him, he had a way of commanding respect that seemed to come as easily to MacCauley. It might've been because Kloppman was compassionate and caring underneath his somewhat gruff nature, and MacCauley was just a big bully, but I respected them both regardless.

I turned over, still trying to stay as quiet as I could. My stomach was heavy and I was able to recognize the feeling for what it was: nerves rather than hunger. I was uncomfortable—nervous—and it had to do with the comparisons I'd just made.

Alfie and Jack, Kloppman and MacCauley. They had a camaraderie between them, though I figured none of them had met their counterpart, and it was that camaraderie—coupled with the strange awareness that an eerily quiet bunkroom gave me—that made me realize just how alone I was.

I was David Jacobs, a poor schmuck who was tossed in between these two different, yet strangely similar, worlds. I didn't belong here in Midtown, just as I never really belonged over on Duane Street. I didn't really belong anywhere.

The sad thing, I thought as I felt my exhausted body relax, sleep finally claiming me, was that I was the _only _one who didn't belong. Les, he could spit and cuss (whenever Mama wasn't around) with the best of the newsies; my role was as his brother, his protector. Sometimes I had the feeling that Les was doing a better job protecting me.

Even Sarah, she belonged more than I did. After all—at the very least—_she'd_ known all about the Sparrow.

As my consciousness drifted away, slipping into a dream where Sarah was back at home and sparrows were simply birds that flew in the sky, I made myself a promise. I wasn't going to do anything else, apart from going to Brooklyn where I would hopefully find them, until I knew the answers to three particular things—

One: I wanted to know _what_ happened to Sarah, what Jack did to her.

Two: I wanted to know _why_ the Sparrow was so darn interested in my sister.

And, most importantly, three: I wanted to know just _who _the Sparrow was. What was it that made him so special, so revered that he could do… whatever it was that he did?

I hoped Teller—if she really came back like she said she would—would be up to helping me get some answers tomorrow. She was the only chance that I had.

--

The first thing I noticed when I woke up the next morning was that it was even quieter than it had been the night before. There was a slight snuffle, maybe a snore, and it took me a second to realize that the sound was coming from me.

I don't know how long I slept but it wasn't anywhere near enough. My legs were stiff, my back sore and I had blisters on my feet the size of a bottle cap. I hadn't taken my shoes off before I'd fallen asleep and it felt like there was pus squishing between my toes. There was no way I was taking them off now; no matter the relief, the stink wouldn't be worth it.

Speaking of stink, I realized I must have moved during the night. Maybe it was because my back was so achy, but I was resting on my stomach, my face pressed up against the hard pillow. Right after slowly coming to, I took a deep breath and nearly gagged on the putrid stench of moldy cheese and dirty feet that seeped from the material.

If I wasn't awake before, I was now. Quiet or no quiet, I couldn't fall back asleep with that disgusting smell in my nose.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes while breathing in shallowly through my mouth, I sat up slowly, ignoring the protest from my body. I hurt so bad that I couldn't even imagine continuing on with my journey into Brooklyn. Nevertheless, that was exactly what I was planning to do.

As I turned over, untangling myself from a moth-eaten blanket so that I could rest on my backside, one thing caught my attention before anything else. Those faded brown suspenders that had been hanging off the edge of the bunk were gone.

I sighed in relief, glad I'd slept through that. I wasn't feeling much up to a confrontation and—stinky pillow and all—I was grateful that I'd been able to sleep in a bunk. Leaning over, I decided the floor didn't look half as comfortable as I thought it did last night.

It was when I was looking down that I understood the reason behind the intense quiet—nobody was left in the bunkroom but me. I quickly turned my head this way and that but that was the truth. Every bunk but mine was empty.

I probably should have experienced a bit of panic that every single one of the Midtown lodgers had got up and left already. For the most part, I hated being late and it was definitely unnerving, sitting in this vacant room all alone.

However, there was no denying the relief I felt. I'd been surprised that none of the other fellas gave me a hard time last night. Without Alfie to help me out this morning, I'd expected some kind of questions or comments on my presence. It was nice that I would be able to wash up and head on out without any spectators.

Now, if only MacCauley would be gone from his desk…

I kept that vain hope to myself as I quickly climbed out of my borrowed bunk and scurried down the wooden ladder. I missed the bottom rung and landed with a small thud, barely dodging a pull toy that was lodged under the lower bunk.

There was a washing station, complete with mirrors, a water pump and a tub, at the far end of the bunkroom. I knew there wasn't much time to spend washing up but I couldn't leave to meet Teller without getting rid of some of the grime that was coating my hands and my face.

There wasn't much soap and I had to make do with a brown sliver I found floating in one of the basins. It didn't smell much better than that pillow, and my hands stung a little when I was done, but at least I was cleaner than I had been.

Teller, when I finally met up with her in front of the lodging house, was not.

After trying my best to tiptoe back down the stairs to the lobby in order to sneak past the superintendent—which ended up being pointless since the lobby was as empty as the bunkroom was—I hurried outdoors, hoping my obvious lateness didn't mean Teller wasn't going to be there waiting for me.

She was.

Her back leaning up against the façade, her arms crossed over her chest as she studied the dismal gray clouds above, she looked exactly the way I remembered her from yesterday—except worse.

My footsteps were hesitant and they alerted her to my approach. Whipping her head around, I nearly gasped when I saw her face. It was dusty and dirty, and there was a deep shadow on the hollow of her left cheek that almost looked like it was a bruise—I hoped, for her sake, that it was just more dirt. Her eyes were nearly swallowed up by the dark circles under her eyes; her braid from the day before was almost unraveled, thick strands escaping from their ties.

All in all, she looked a mess. I thought I might've had a rough night's sleep but Teller… she looked like she hadn't slept at all.

The guilt I felt was sudden and overwhelming. I knew I should never have taken her last nickel.

Teller must have caught the way that I was gawking and, before I even had the chance to open my mouth and apologize, she quickly began to talk.

She asked me how I slept and I tried to answer her as honestly as I could. It was difficult to put into words how unsettling it had been, surrounded by all those boys but hearing nothing. After she stifled an unladylike snort, I stopped trying to explain. I didn't appreciate her reaction and, besides, I was more interested in how_ she _slept.

I was betting she didn't but, like yesterday, something in the set of her razor-thin smile that pressed me to keep my thoughts to myself.

A bit surprisingly, my sudden quiet didn't mean that she was done with her part of the conversation. I had the idea that she wanted to keep my mind off of the way she looked; she kept her head turned away from and she stared at her feet as she continued to ramble on, speaking so quickly that I wouldn't have had the chance to add anything.

Completely avoiding the subject of how she'd spent the night, Teller started walking—I followed alongside her, like a little lost puppy dog—as she told me just how long she'd been waiting for me. I was beginning to think that I couldn't feel any guiltier and I wonder if that was her idea, too.

I brushed that thought aside as the topic abruptly switched from this morning to this afternoon. Without even expecting me to join in, she spoke quickly and firmly, planning out the journey into Brooklyn that she was so keen to take me on.

"I figure it's late enough now," she said, and I felt that same twinge of guilt again, "that, by the time we cross the bridge, we'll find Conlon and Cowboy plotting together on the docks. Given the situation, I don't think neither one of them's gonna go out and sell but, hey, what do I know? They might be tryin' to hide this from some others," she said, shrugging, "but I got a feeling 'bout those two. Stick with me, Dave, and we'll find your sister."

That was one thing about Teller. As I followed her aimlessly, watching her navigate these unfamiliar streets, she sounded way more confident that I felt. Maybe it was because she obviously knew far more about this… what did she call it? Situation? She knew far more about this situation than I did but, I don't know, her words did very little to comfort me.

Still, I was grateful for her company and for her help. If she could even take me as far as the Brooklyn Bridge itself, that would be enough. I knew the rest of the way to the docks myself and I was pretty sure, once I'd confronted Jack and Spot, I'd get the answer to at least one of my three questions.

But there was one I was _really _curious about, one I thought Teller might just answer.

I waited until she paused long enough to take a breath—she was talking about how long it would take to finish our walk; I could already feel the pulsing blisters I would have tomorrow—before taking the opportunity to jump in.

"Teller, can I ask you a question?"

"And what would that be, David?"

For the first time today since we met at the lodging house, Teller actually looked me in the eye. There was a strange expression on her face, her lips curved in that same, strange crooked grin; her body language, on the other hand, said she wasn't as amused as she was pretending to be. She stood on guard, her back arched and her arms tensed.

I couldn't understand her sudden change in behavior and I almost chickened out of asking her my question. I took a step away from her, almost involuntarily, but I retained my resolve. Besides, what was the worst she could do? Just tell me to mind my own business, right?

Right.

"Who… who is the Sparrow?"

The Sparrow has my sister. It _is _my business.

* * *

Author's Note: _Ooh, ugly cliffhanger, ain't it? But, on the plus side, Teller's definitely going to answer the question -- in her own way -- in the next chapter ;) Until then... enjoy!_

_-- stress, 08.09.08_


	12. In Which the Sparrow is Explained

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Sparrow**

_When Sarah disappears, it's up to David to go looking for her.  
With only a simple clue to where she could have gone, and the understanding that he's in over his head,  
it won't take him too long to discover that his sister wasn't the only one with a secret._

--

For just a second, though, I watched as Teller's face seemed to freeze. She didn't blink and I'm pretty sure she didn't breathe, either. It was as if she'd seen a ghost. I immediately felt guilty for asking the question. I had no idea that she would react in such a way.

But then the second passes and, as if the fearful expression had never been, Teller simply look annoyed. "How the hell am I supposed to know?" she demanded, snorting under her breath as she quickly resumed her pace.

In my hurry to catch up with her, I barely noticed that we'd even stopped in the first place. I did, however, see all of the curious—if downright scandalized—expressions of the passersby surrounding us. Teller wasn't as quiet as she could have been and I assumed the way she hurried past the others, almost shoving by them as if she could outrun my question, seemed to offend them.

Grinning apologetically as I followed in her wake, I tried to catch up with her. No doubt about it, Teller was fast any my legs were still a little shaky from yesterday's walk across town. I wasn't as used to all this hurrying about as she was; journeying with Teller was almost like running around the lower east side with Jack.

At least this time _I_ was the one doing the pursuing. It wasn't any fun, despite what Les said or Jack joked, being chased by that old warden from the Refuge, Snyder.

By the time I caught up with her—she'd stopped to hike up her patched skirt which, I saw, had a line of dirt along the right side as if she'd slept on a pile of dust—she was actually laughing. I definitely was _not _expecting that and my guilt quickly melted away to a steady, burning anger. It actually felt nice to experience an emotion separate from anxiety.

She was _laughing _at me. I was tired, I was sore, my blisters were throbbing and I still had no idea what I was doing, following this girl into Brooklyn on a tip that that would be where I found Jack… and Teller was laughing.

With a little bit more pout than I would've liked, I snapped at her. "What's so funny?"

"Nothin', Dave, really. I was just rememberin' something but…" She shook her head, "… but never mind. It ain't important…" Her voice trailed off as she laughed once more, a gentler sound that I convinced myself was about her humorous thoughts rather than my personal dilemma.

I had to admit—once my anger cooled and I willed my tired mouth to grin rather than pout—that it was kind of nice to see her smile. A real smile, not that haughty smirk I'd been used to. Teller was pretty when she smiled and not nearly half as unapproachable.

I didn't tell her that, though, choosing to keep _that _thought to myself. We could both have secrets. She was being friendly now but I don't think that her good mood would last if I paid her such a compliment. She might think me too forward, and I could only imagine how Jack would react that I'd spoken to his girl that way.

If, of course, Teller _was _Jack's girl. I suddenly realized that I'd never actually discovered the relationship between the two of them. A little voice in the back of my head—not as loud as the one demanding to know where my sister was, or what the Sparrow wanted with her—made a note that, when all was said and done, it would be nice to have the answer to that, too.

I shook my head. Like I said—when all was said and done. There was still a lot left to do… unfortunately; I wasn't sure how much more my feet could take.

As we started up our walking again, with Teller in considerably better spirits than when I met her earlier this dreary morning, I decided that I would try to speak to her again. But not yet; I wanted to make sure she didn't get upset again.

We walked in silence for quite awhile, the only sound being my occasional grunts and groans as my muscles screamed in protest. I hadn't walked this far, or this hard, since the summer before when I was a full-time newsboy. Since then, I'd taken it a lot more easily, walking a handful of blacks to lessons and back. When I did sell the evening edition of the _World _with Jack and Les, we stayed close. I'd grown soft and my shoes too tight. When I ran off to deliver Sarah's envelope yesterday, I'd never expected to have to walk farther than to Tibby's.

The longer we walked without any mentions of the Sparrow or my personal quest, the happier Teller seemed to be. Every now and then she would glance at me and smile, though it didn't really reach her troubled eyes. None of them were anything like that first secretive smile, or the crooked grin that made her look so mischievous, but they helped to boost my confidence.

When I could tell that a good part of our walk was over, and our belly's were filled courtesy of a charitable breakfast of somewhat stale rolls and lukewarm coffee, I took the opportunity to bring up my initial question again. I was still just as determined to get some sort of concrete answer out of my companion.

Besides, if I ever wanted to ask her anything else, I needed her to answer this one first.

"So, Teller… I think you misunderstood me before," I began, trying not to sound so condescending when I spoke, "when I asked you about the Sparrow. I didn't think you knew him personally, I was simply wondering who he _was_. Not his identity, you see, but… his legend, I guess."

I knew I was stumbling over my words, trying to get her to understand exactly what I meant. The last thing I needed was for her to get huffy again—I didn't think I would be able to catch up to her if she took off like that a second time.

She surprised me, though. The satisfied smile she'd worn slid off of her face but she didn't look angry, at least not like she had before. Tilting her head slightly to the side, she looked over at me. Teller was only a foot or so away from me, her steps visibly slowing as she seemed to invite me to walk alongside her, rather than following behind her.

Standing next to her, I noticed that she really was that tall. I'd seen her sitting beside Jack at Tibby's yesterday and I remembered thinking she was a tall girl but, this close, I realized she was actually taller than me. In an effort to feel a little less insignificant in her presence, I straightened up and rested on the front of my feet instead of the heels; it actually felt better, taking all that extra pressure off my nasty blisters.

Her eyes were dark, almost as dark as the thick circles underneath, and they were narrowed on my face. Like she was searching for something. It was a little disconcerting and somewhat embarrassing; yet, at the same time, it was a little nice to have _her _looking at _me _so intently.

Thank goodness I'd bothered freshening up at the pump.

Slowly, hesitantly, she nodded her head and turned it so that she was looking at where she was doing instead of looking at my face. Licking her lips as she bobbed her head before swallowing, I guess her mouth was dry or something. The vivid red lip paints from yesterday, I suddenly realized, had faded and she hadn't reapplied any color; secretly, I decided Teller was more attractive without the garishness.

"The Sparrow," she said finally, her words closer to a whisper than to her regular speech, "he's a legend no doubt, I'll give him that much. A legend in his own mind, yeah, but on the street…"

For a split second, a grimace split her tired face but, before I'd gotten a better look, she controlled her features. Wiping her mouth with her palm, effectively cutting off her words, she turned her head away as careful fingers softly caressed her left cheek. I was standing to her left and, as sneakily as I could, I took a closer look at her cheek—my earlier assessment had been correct. The mark on her face was definitely a bruise.

Dropping her hand, unaware of the way I was glancing at her as we turned down the cross street and just barely missed a pile of horse dung, she shrugged her shoulders. Teller was frowning and I recalled how she'd told me that she didn't really like the Sparrow. I'd accepted her words then as proof that she wanted to help me find Sarah but now… I couldn't really explain it—I've always had good judgment and a strong hunch to follow—but her earlier reaction and now this careful, wary manner of hers… somehow, I felt like she'd made an understatement yesterday.

Perhaps it wasn't a good idea to bring him up. When I'd spoken to Rachel, she'd been adamant that it was dangerous to talk about the Sparrow, that one word could be too much. Was that it? Did this Sparrow person frighten Teller, too?

I couldn't imagine this street girl being afraid of anyone but, if that was the case, who was I to demand answers to questions she didn't want asked of her? First I took her last nickel, then I forced her to spend a sleepless night only God knows where and now I was upsetting her… I really _was _a cad.

We both, obviously, had our own reasons to go up against the Sparrow. Mine was rescuing my sister from whatever mess she'd landed herself in. Did it really matter who he was, or why Teller was gunning for him, if, in the end, we found him?

However, before I could try to sway the topic of conversation to something else, Teller seemed to have made a decision. Her jaw was set and, though she kept her head straight as she cut down another side street—I almost missed the turn and had to double my step, wincing as I did, in order to keep up—she began to speak again.

"He's hard to explain, David."

"I promise I'll try my best to follow you."

She gave me a mix between an amused and a haughty look before continuing, "Well, the Sparrow, he's… he's kind of the king of the streets. It's hard to explain," she said again, cutting off my attempt to comment at the idea that the New York streets were lorded over by a _bird_, "he rules all over the City but only a couple of u—a couple of kids knows he really exists. Everyone else, I guess, they think he's like a legend. Like the bogeyman, you could say."

Teller shrugged apologetically, as if telling me how sad those people are, not to believe in this myth of the Sparrow. "He's got his spies everywhere," she added, "real spies who report back to him and then he tells whoever he thinks needs to know what's going on. He's… he's in control, almost. Over all the boroughs. Say, have you ever heard of the term 'birdie'?"

Actually, I had. When I first met Spot Conlon last summer, he'd told me and Jack that he'd heard about the strike from his 'birdies'. My heart suddenly started pounding at that moment. Did that mean what I think it means? If anyone, Spot Conlon was the king of Brooklyn, if not New York.

I didn't tell my newfound suspicions to Teller. Instead, I said as nonchalantly as I could, "Yeah. Spot Conlon told me about 'birdies' once."

She nodded and, in one sentence, crushed my theory. "Conlon would, he's pretty high up with the Sparrow."

I tried not to let my disappointment show. If Spot had been the Sparrow, it would've been pretty easy to find Sarah, considering how close we were to Brooklyn. Frowning only slightly, I asked, "Are these 'birdies' important?"

"Kinda. I told you that the Sparrow had spies, right? When someone refers to a little birdie, they're talking about the Sparrow, or one of his lackeys. They've branched out pretty far," she admitted, and I could see a twinge of fear on her face. "It's pretty dicey going up against him."

Her unsaid meaning wasn't lost on me. People only fear what they don't understand but I understood that Teller was afraid. I wasn't… yet. I was still too concerned about my sister to worry about what this Sparrow could do to.

"I don't get it. If he's that in control, why does he want Sarah?"

I only asked that because I was thinking out loud. I didn't really expect Teller to know—in fact, I was almost positive she had no idea. The only reason she even knew I had a sister and that that sister was gone was because she was sitting beside Jack at Tibby's. I didn't expect her to know anything else… well, except for who the Sparrow was, and she'd already told me that.

But, once again, she surprised me. Almost speaking out of the corner of her mouth, she said disbelievingly, "You really don't know, do you?"

"Wha—no. I have no clue what this so-called king of New York wants with my sister," I told her, frowning. Didn't she think, if I knew _that, _then I would have known who, at least, the character was that I was dealing with? "How am I supposed to? I didn't even know there was a bird king until yesterday, you know. And what a stupid name, anyway. _The Sparrow_."

Unless I was imagining it, Teller seemed to flinch as I made mention of a bird king; her face actually pales when I called his nickname stupid. She was probably thinking about all of the little spies she'd just told me about but, honestly, I couldn't make myself care at that moment. I might not be as curious as some of the other fellas but, I'll tell you one thing, I could be just as stubborn as they could. Just ask Bryan Denton.

Besides, I was kind of hoping that one of his precious little spies would overhear me. I was getting tired of all of this running around. Narrowing my eyes, I could see the great form of the Brooklyn Bridge before me; there was still a bit of a ways to go and that didn't even count the trek into Brooklyn. It would be a whole lot easier if I let the Sparrow find _me _instead.

I stopped walking. That's exactly what I was going to do. After all, why should I have to bother hunting Jack Kelly down in Brooklyn when he obviously wasn't the one with Sarah. It was pointless to waste my time; it wasn't Jack I needed, not when his answers would be worthless without my sister. It wasn't really about knowledge anymore. I just wanted to find Sarah and to get back home.

Mama must be having kittens already, what with two of her children gone. There was no way I was returning without Sarah… therefore, I realized, there was no point in prolonging the journey. I needed to find the Sparrow—and when I found the Sparrow, I would get my sister back.

And then Sarah could tell me what exactly had happened.

Crossing my arms over my chest as I stood still, I made the conscious decision not to move. Not yet, anyway. Maybe, if I screamed negative things about the Sparrow long enough, one of his 'birdies' would hear me and report me to their master. It was, I decided, much better than to continue limping on my sore feet and achy legs. I swear, as soon as I get back home, I was going to get newer (looser) shoes; until then, I wasn't taking another step.

Teller, it seemed, didn't like that idea too much.

With more strength than I would have thought, considering how my stubborn legs refused to move, Teller wrapped her long, thin fingers around my upper arm and pulled. My feet came free from the dirt path at once; I'd never had a chance.

Without even giving me a second to protest, she started dragging me down another alleyway, following reluctantly behind her. She shot one careful look past me but, unfortunately for my slapdash plan, we were definitely alone. She sighed but, despite that relaxed exhale, I felt her grip tightened.

"_That _was stupid, Dave."

I ignored her. If it wasn't for the fact that I was a grown boy, I might've pouted my displeasure at the way she'd insulted my plan. I'd thought it was actually pretty clever.

She shook her head, her disheveled braid swinging behind like a pendulum. I had the insane urge to pull at it but, regardless of what she said, I wasn't _that _stupid.

"Really, I can't believe you'd do something like that. I would've thought you'd understood that the Sparrow was more dangerous than that," she continued, her voice growing more heated as she scolded me. "He took your sister, and once he's got someone, he aint' so willin' to give 'em back. This isn't a game, you know."

Her tone surprised me. She actually sounded… defensive. But, whether it was for Sarah or… or me, I don't know. But I did feel guilty. Again. Teller was sure good at making me feel like that.

"I…" I lowered my head, not even looking at the back of her. "I know. It's not a game. But I can't stand not knowing more about this situation. She's my _sister_, Teller, and I'm trying to help her. I just don't know what else to do."

My confession must have softened her. That, or she thought we'd made it far enough away from the other street that it was safe for her to let go of me because ,as soon as we entered out onto Newspaper Row, she dropped my arm.

She sighed and, ignoring the hustle and bustle of the newsies and their prospective customers surrounding us, pointed at the looming structure of the Brooklyn Bridge. I hadn't realized we were so close. She must've just taken me down some sort of a shortcut. Teller really _did _know her way around town.

"I do know, David. We've got to go to Brooklyn, just like I told you yesterday."

I shook my head. "No, we don't. I'm not interested in looking for Jack no more. I want to find the Sparrow."

Her thin eyebrow arched and, for a second, there was a ghost of that crooked smile. "I'm sure you do, but we still got to go to Brooklyn."

I was tired of the secrets and I couldn't help myself. I snapped. "And why's that, Teller?"

"Because Jack Kelly and Spot Conlon are the damn reason the Sparrow went after your sister in the first place."

* * *

Author's Note: _Look at that, I updated again! I felt so bad to leave the cliffhanger right there so, rather than wait, I decided to finally answer the question of "Who is the Sparrow?" Obviously, that question will be answered further (eventually, heh) but, until then, at least there's some more to him than being some phantom kidnapper ;)_

_I hope you liked it! Let me know :)_

_-- stress, 08.17.08_


	13. In Which Brooklyn Newsies Look the Same

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Sparrow**

_When Sarah disappears, it's up to David to go looking for her.  
With only a simple clue to where she could have gone, and the understanding that he's in over his head,  
it won't take him too long to discover that his sister wasn't the only one with a secret._

--

I took a second to process what she said. I'm sure I looked like a fool, my mouth hanging open as I stared at her. She'd whispered her retort and, for a moment, I wondered if I'd heard her wrong.

"What?"

"You heard me. Those two buffoons are why the Sparrow went after your Sarah."

So many questions were running through my head. "Jack? Spot? What? Why? How?" I shook my head and then tried again. "How… how do _you _know that?"

She looked stumped, almost as if she didn't want to admit where her knowledge had come from. Her mouth opened once, then twice, but she didn't say anything either time. Finally, she closed her mouth and shook her head before muttering, "The question is, Dave, how do you _not _know that?"

"I don't understand."

"You wouldn't," she huffed, her attention on the Brooklyn Bridge before us. She didn't move towards it, though. Instead, speaking out of the side of her mouth, she said to me, "How well do you really know your sister?"

I don't know if she meant to offend me with her offhanded question, or if she really thought she knew Sarah better than me, but it was my turn again for my mouth to drop open in surprise.

What a silly question to ask me.

Sarah was my sister, my elder by a year. We lived in the same house, ate at the same dinner table, obeyed the same parents. She'd helped me learn to read; in turn, I helped her with her penmanship. She listened eagerly to any stories I had about my times selling newspapers with the other newsies and I listened as…

… as Sarah told me absolutely nothing about herself.

My mouth closed before any of the flies hovering over a nearby pile of garbage could fly in there.

Maybe wasn't such a silly question at all.

Vindicated and vaguely victorious, Teller didn't say a single word as I, blisters screaming in protest and thoughts racing, started forward again. She didn't say a word—but she didn't have to. Her hands in her pockets and a crooked smile on her lips, her very essence said 'I told you so'.

Maybe that was what made me do it. Common sense told me that, in my right mind, I never would have taken a handful of steps forward before whirling around to face her. It had to be some rash bout of insanity brought on by Teller's contentment that she was always right. Cocky, she was, and it made my frayed temper break. Why couldn't, just once, I get to be the cocky one?

My hands folded into tight fists at my side, I whirled around and demanded, "What do you know about Sarah that I don't?"

She didn't even flinch. Rolling her eyes as she walked right on by me, she waved her hand flippantly. "I'll tell you later."

I didn't like the way she said that. I had the feeling that, no matter how much later it got, she would always feel like it wasn't late enough; simply put, she didn't plan on telling me… and I couldn't have that. I was getting tired of being the last to know everything. If _she _knew, she was going to have to tell me.

Without really thinking about what I was doing, I shot my hand out and wrapped it around her upper arm. My touch effectively stopped her right in her tracks. "No, Teller," I said, trying to sound authoritative, "tell me now."

You know, if looks could kill, I would have dropped dead at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge.

Wrenching her arm out of my grip before backing away from me, Teller huffed again and gave me the toughest, most disbelieving look I'd ever seen in my life—and I knew Spot Conlon. "I _said_ I'll tell you _later_," she hissed, her dark eyes flashing.

No surprise, I shrunk back. My hand was still outstretched and, sheepishly, I let it fall. I didn't know what to say to that so I didn't say anything. If I would have, I bet Teller might've bitten my head right off.

"Okay, all right. Later, then."

Silently, I fell back into step behind her. Teller, breathing heavily through her nose, shot one last dirty look in my direction before heading off towards the bridge.

Touchy.

--

This trip over the Brooklyn Bridge went much quicker than my last one, I had to admit. For one thing, I didn't have to stop to shout over the side like I'd done with Jack and Boots; for another, I didn't have the dread of meeting the famed (and feared) Spot Conlon to slow my steps, either.

Teller hadn't said a word to me during the entire walk over the bridge. She started out walking with a purpose, her strides long and her hands moving at her sides as if to power her on. Every now and then she would peek over her shoulder at me. I guess she was making sure that I hadn't done a runner once her back was turned, that I was still following right behind her. I was limping a bit, sure, but to my surprise—and probably hers, too—I kept pace with her.

By the time we'd made it into Brooklyn we were walking almost side by side. Whether she'd slowed down purposely or if she wasn't as angry as she was when we were leaving Manhattan, I didn't know. But it was nice to be standing next to her instead of trailing behind her like a pup.

Her arm brushed against mine once and I felt her fingers touch the back of my hand before she frowned to herself and widened the gap between us. She didn't walk any faster, though, and I found myself struggling to hide a small grin. Her hands were much softer than I would have thought.

The first thing I noticed once we started off into Brooklyn was that the Saturday morning rush was on. Despite the somewhat early hour, there were people out on the streets buying things, selling things and just going about their Saturday business. It was the last day of the week before the Sabbath and most people were trying to get everything done before that day of rest.

Among them all were the Brooklyn newsboys. For the most part a rough and tumble gang of boys led by Spot Conlon himself, I saw no less than one of those newsies on every corner as we made our way through the city. Sometimes there were two or three of them, staking out a good spot, hollering out improvements on the truth in order to attract potential buyers. I half-expected to see fistfights breaking out—or, at least, the sight of a drawn and taut slingshot—every time I saw more than one of those brutish boys gathering.

I found myself staring at them, watching them expectedly as we passed. When all I got were some questioning, and some daring answering looks, I realized that staring at the Brooklyn newsies was a sure way to a fat lip. I made sure to look down, keeping my eyes on the road.

As I did that, my mind wandered from the boys with their papers to the two unofficial newsie leaders I was in search of. According to Snipeshooter—and backed by Teller's unexplained certainty—I would find Jack her in Brooklyn with Spot. But where?

I knew far less of Spot's Brooklyn haunts than I did of Jack's Manhattan ones. I've only been this way once and Jack had led me and Boots straight to the docks. Would that be where I found them today?

Lifting my head up a little, I thought I would ask Teller what she thought. If anything, it would be a nice way to break up the quiet. However, when I turned my head to my left to look at her, I noticed that Teller's attention was already occupied. She was still walking straight ahead, but she was looking at something—someone—across the street.

I wasn't all that surprised to find that the person she was watching was a newsboy. I didn't recognize him but, then again, all of Spot's boys seemed to look the same to me. He was tall, lanky, dark-haired and he carried a stack of newspapers over one shoulder. Not to mention, he was also currently scowling as he made eyes back at Teller.

I couldn't really explain why but I didn't like the way he was looking at her. I felt a sudden and completely irrational urge to run over there and knock his papers out of his hand.

I didn't. I wanted to, but I didn't.

Instead, I reached out and gently tapped her shoulder. As if I frightened her, Teller gave a little jump, her head whirling around so fast that her braid almost hit her on the side of her face.

Once she realized it was just me, she frowned. "What?"

"Do you… do you know that guy?" I asked, trying to sound friendly. Maybe I was reading too much into her strange stare and that boy's scowl. If I was lucky, then they were _just_ friends—even in my thoughts I found myself emphasizing the word—and he could tell us where we could find Spot Conlon.

"Wha—? Huh? _Him_?" Shaking her head in an overly dramatic fashion, Teller glanced back over at the newsie. He was still watching her, curiously now rather than affronted, but her eyes only flickered to him for a second before she looked shrewdly back at me. "No, I don't know him. I ain't never seen him before in my life. Why? You know him?"

"No, I—"

Warning bells went off in my head right then. I had no doubt in my mind that Teller, for one reason or another, was lying to me but there was no way I was going to call her on it. If I thought she was touchy before, I could only imagine how made she would be if I accused her of fibbing.

"—I just thought you recognized him, that's all. And, if you _did _know him… well, it might've been nice to have someone to ask where we could find Jack and Spot."

"I don't." She all but barked her answer; there was such force behind her words that I silently congratulated myself for not pushing the subject more than I normally would have. Teller was back to her familiar haughty self as she added, "And I don't need any help finding Jacky _or _Conlon. I know exactly where they are."

"You do? Where?"

"You'll see when we get there."

And I knew, as she threw in annoyed snort for good measure, that that would be all I got out of her for awhile.

She may be called Teller, I thought to myself as I hurried off after her, but they'd be better off calling her Secret Keeper.

We fell back into silence. Like when we were on the bridge, Teller seemed to be trying her best to ignore me—and failing miserably. More than once I caught her looking at me sideways again. It was beginning to make me very uneasy. Add that to my nagging, growing suspicion that she didn't really have any idea where we were going and it was no wonder that I felt my unusually short temper flaring up again.

Of course, that could also be because I was so hungry. It had to have been a couple of hours since breakfast—and that was if you called a stale roll split between two and a cup of lukewarm coffee breakfast.

My stomach, suddenly reminded that it's been empty for close to a full day now, chose that moment to grumble. It grumbled so loud that, if I hadn't known that _I_ made that sound, I might've thought a trolley car was roaring on by.

"Was that you?"

If she could like when I asked her a question, so could I. "No."

"Oh really?" Pausing, she crossed her arms over her chest. Her eyebrow arched. "You tellin' me that you ain't hungry?"

I could only lie so much. I had a hunch that, if I denied it, Teller would find a way to make sure that I didn't eat again until I found Sarah, brought her home and begged Mama for some of her soup.

"I—I didn't say _that_."

"Good, 'cause I'm hungry. What do you say we find a cheap shop and get some lunch? We're almost there, anyways. A tiny break won't kill us."

Lunch sounded so good, you wouldn't believe it. There was on problem, though: neither of us had any money.

When I told her that, Teller just laughed off my concerns. "I know you ain't got no money, but I can spot ya. You can pay me back after all this… you know… Sparrow business is done."

I'd almost forgotten all about the Sparrow in our search from Spot and Jack in Brooklyn. I mean, I _know _he was ultimately the reason we were here even looking for those two but, between Teller's temper, strange newsies and an achy belly, you start to lose sight of the overall picture. Right then the Sparrow was at the back of my mind; trying to turn the nothing I thought we both had into a paid for hot lunch was my priority.

"How can you spot me," I asked earnestly with only the smallest hint of a whine in my voice, "when I know you don't have any money?"

She scoffed, "All the things you _know_, Davey, could fit inside a thimble." Then, a rather proud smile at home on her face, she reached her hand into the patched pocket on the front of her skirt and withdrew a handful of worn coins. Most were pennies but, sitting in the center, shining like diamonds, were two quarter pieces. More than enough to buy us both some lunch.

Feeling foolish, I said, "But I thought you gave me your last nickel yesterday?" And here I felt like an awful cad, taking the last of her money when she quite obviously had enough to spare.

Teller took one look at my puzzled—and partly sheepish, I admit—expression and then turned her dark eyes on the mound of coins in the palm of her hand. Her lips moved wordlessly and I wondered what she was doing. Counting her money, maybe?

When she finally looked up again there was a dazed look in her eye. She shook her head. "I did give you my last nickel. See?" She held her hand out for my inspection. "I never said I gave you every cent I had."

I glanced down at the proffered coins. I think I really had a hankering to prove her wrong but… I'll be darned.

There wasn't a single nickel in the bunch.

* * *

Author's Note: _It's been awhile but I had a bad case of writer's block with this chapter. On the plus side, I plotted out the rest of the story -- and what comes after -- so there's only a handful of chapters left after this (at current count two but that could always change). Of course, a part two is more than likey planned in order to keep this story the way I want it. Just wondering -- does a part two sound interesting?_

_Anywho, my goal is to have this finished by my birthday (in the first week of October) so I can get cracking on part two before NaNoWriMo starts up again in November. Wish me luck!_

_-- stress, 09.21.08_


	14. In Which Bean Soup is Questionable

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Sparrow**

_When Sarah disappears, it's up to David to go looking for her.  
With only a simple clue to where she could have gone, and the understanding that he's in over his head,  
it won't take him too long to discover that his sister wasn't the only one with a secret._

--

We found a small booth in the back of a dank, dark joint that Teller insisted had the best bratwurst this side of the Brooklyn Bridge. It was empty inside, despite her claims, but it seemed to take forever before someone came along and asked us what we'd like. Perhaps it was because she looked dirty and I looked like I definitely didn't belong, but the waiter who eventually helped us acted as if he doubted we could pay. It took Teller flashing her two quarters before anything even halfway resembling a smile crossed his craggy, worn face.

She ordered bratwurst and, trying to hide my disgusted face, I mumbled that I would like to try their old fashion navy bean soup. It would be nourishing, and hopefully cure some of my aches and pains. Not to mention, it wouldn't be too heavy and I could eat it pretty quickly. I didn't want to linger in this place any longer than we had to.

It looked a bit iffy when he finally brought it out to us. With a sniff, I glanced down at the thick, brown liquid and prayed that no one spit in it. I didn't have much hope for the hygiene of this place; if someone decided they wanted to hock a loogie in my soup, I'd never know.

The dirty looking spoon I'd been handed hovered over the bowl and I wondered just how hungry I was. It _smelled _good but… maybe I'd be better off waiting until we'd found Spot. I'm sure he knew where to find some good food in his own city.

I could feel Teller's questioning stare as I debated. In between taking rather large—and definitely unladylike—bites off of her sandwich, she nodded at me. "What? Too hot for ya, Dave?"

Reluctant to admit that I was hesitant to eat at one of her favorite restaurants, I nodded in return. That was as good excuse as any since I was suddenly very wary of the differences in our way of lives; as poor as my family was when Papa was out of work, and as thin as the soup got, I'd never wondered what exactly I was eating. I had the feeling that I couldn't say the same for Teller.

"Well, blow on it or something. We don't got all day, do we?" she said, almost scolding, her mouth full of food. Half of her bratwurst was gone already. She must have been really hungry.

Funny, but I'd been under the impression that, of the two of us, maybe it was _Teller _who was dragging her heels a bit. She claimed to know exactly where we needed to go but, somehow, we weren't there yet. Then again, maybe she _didn't _know. I couldn't tell with her.

So I didn't say anything to her about that, though. Instead, with a steely look at the seemingly innocent bowl of soup, I dipped my spoon in and, only waiting another second before I'd gathered enough courage to put the spoon to my mouth and dip the broth inside, I swallowed.

Okay. It was pretty darn good. But, with Teller's knowing gaze on my expression, I kept my face neutral. After letting her see me act so cowardly towards a simple bowl of soup I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of realizing that I actually liked it.

She smirked but didn't say anything. She just finished chomping on her sandwich.

We finished our meal as it started: in silence. Nobody bothered us as we ate, not even our waiter, and that kind of surprised me. I would have thought, despite Teller's showing that we could pay, that someone would've kept an eye on us. I knew how bad we looked; if there was ever a chance of a couple of kids running out on a bill, it'd be us.

Surprisingly, I don't think the idea of stiffing our waiter ever occurred to Teller, maybe because she'd already do so yesterday. Or, if it did, she didn't say it out loud. When she finished her bratwurst, and then waited for me to finish slurping up the rest of my soup, she sat calmly, waiting for our surly waiter to bring us our bill.

It wasn't a long wait. Maybe I was wrong about assuming no one was watching us because, not too long after I put my spoon down and pushed my bowl back, the man appeared in the back corner, a wrinkled bit of paper in his hand. It looked smaller, and more worn, than it should and it made me curious.

Craning my neck, I tried to see what it said before he'd handed it over but I think that annoyed him. With a scowl and a snort, he bypassed me and handed it straight to Teller. She looked surprised as she accepted it. Being nosy, I still tried to see what was on there because, as he passed it over to her, I could have sworn I saw something doodled on the bottom of the sheet.

Teller, on the other hand, agreed with the waiter—she didn't want me to see our bill, either. Narrowing her eyes against the darkness, she glanced at it before folding it in half and nodding to herself.

She turned to look at me. "Dave," she said, her voice suddenly higher than it had been before when she was teasing me, "how 'bout I take care of the bill? You go wait for me outside, alright? I'll pay and meet you out front."

Her request confused me. I hadn't seen any prices on the place's limited menu but I'm pretty sure my soup and her bratwurst hadn't cost anymore than what she had. Why, then, did she have to pay the waiter in private?

I didn't know and, with the waiter standing there, I couldn't ask. Instead, I nodded. "Sure."

The waiter still hadn't left; trying not to look interested at our conversation, he scowled and tapped his foot against the floor. He didn't move from his post as I slid out of my seat. Mumbling an apology under my breath, I bumped past him. Sticking my hands in my pockets, feeling a bit like I'd been dismissed, I made my away across the small restaurant.

When I made it outside, the sun very nearly blinded me. I'd forgotten how bright it could get and, after some time in the darkness, my eyes were unused to the light. It had been cloudy when we went inside but, while we ate, the sun seemed to have melted off most of the earlier threatening storm clouds.

I took that as a good omen as I shielded my eyes and moved so that I was standing out front, my back to the restaurant's dingy storefront.

I'd expected Teller to hand over her money and hightail it right out of the place. When, after five minutes or so, I was still standing out front, waiting for her, I began to wonder what was going on in there. I couldn't figure it out myself; instead, I started to think about what I was doing here again.

Sarah was… somewhere, and I was in Brooklyn. Looking for Jack, looking for Spot who… I don't know, must have _some _sort of information on this whole Sparrow _thing_.

Now, I just had to find them. Wherever—

—hold on. Wait a second… all this time, following Teller through Midtown and now all the way into Brooklyn, I'd wondered where I was going to find the two newsies. I'd been concerned, considering I didn't know anything about Brooklyn at all. But I knew Jack, and I knew Spot and I knew where Teller expected them both to be.

I was an idiot. I _knew_ where she was taking us and, yet, I'd let her prolong the trip as long as she could. But why wait now?

I couldn't believe that I'd forgotten what Teller had told me just outside of Midtown. In that self-assured way she had, she'd said that she figured Jack and Spot would probably be out on the docks by the time we got to Brooklyn. Why, then, was she making a big production of not knowing exactly how to get to them?

Heck, if they were on the docks, I didn't need her to find them. _I _could find them.

Glancing over my shoulder to see if she was coming, I decided that I'd be better off going off on my own. I was appreciative of everything she'd done for me but there was no reason why she needed to do anything more. After all, this was my problem—_my _sister—and it should be up to me to solve it by myself.

Besides, a little voice in the back of my head said, I didn't really want to find Jack with Teller leading the way. I still wasn't quite sure what kind of bond the two of them had—or, admittedly, what sort of bond _I _had with Teller—and it might just be too much for the two of us to confront Jack.

She still wasn't coming and, though I felt a touch of guilt, I started right down the street. I'd only been to Brooklyn once before and I wasn't familiar with the street I was on right now, but I figured I could find the docks on my own if I really tried. At the very least, I might get lucky and stumble upon someone to help me find my way, like I had with Alfie and Madison Ave.

You never know. I mean, my luck had to pick up _sometime_, right?

It did.

After haphazardly choosing my directions, keeping my eye (and ear) out for signs that I was approaching the river, I stumbled across the docks within no time. I almost couldn't believe it. It was pretty darn amazing.

The last time I'd been to Brooklyn, it had been during the dog days of summer and the docks and the river below had been crowded with half naked newsies all desperate for a cooling swim. Not today, though; in fact, I began to second guess my brilliant idea—_Teller_'s idea—of finding my way all the way here. It didn't seem like anyone was on the docks at all.

"David Jacobs? Hey, Mouth? That you?"

My heart just about jumped out of my throat. I didn't see anyone at all but, obviously, someone had seen me. Whirling around, I tried to find the source of that demanding voice.

Spot Conlon had appeared out of nowhere, I swear. One second no one was there, and, the next, there he was. Sticking his sturdy can underneath the straps of his pale red suspenders, a suspicious smirk splitting his tanned face, he was there, stalking towards me. His shoes tapped gently against the wooden docks.

Clearing my throat, I nodded. "Hello, Spot. It's good to see you again."

"Cut the chitchat, Mouth," Spot ordered, though his cyan eyes were bright and humorous, "and tell me what you're doin' here."

Suddenly I wondered if looking for Spot all alone was the best thing I could have done. When I said before that he wasn't as intimidating as all the other boys made him out to be, I'd been fooling myself. Spot Conlon was a little scary—but that didn't mean I was going to let him push me around. I never had before.

My voice was shaking a little but I stood firm as I said, "Looking for Jack, actually. Someone told me that he was on his way here and—"

"Lookin' for me, Davey?"

I almost swallowed my tongue when I heard Jack Kelly's voice. At least I knew he _was _here, too. Somewhere, at least.

And there he was. Just like Spot, he seemed to appear out of nowhere. He was frowning, thick strands of his greasy brown hair slicked down to his forehead. There were bags under his eyes to rival Teller's and I had the hunch that Jack hadn't got much sleep, either.

What the heck is going on here?

I waited until Jack had taken his place beside Spot before I nodded. I glanced at him seriously, my legs quivering like jelly out of exhaustion and relief. I'd finally done what I'd been meaning to do for two days now—I've finally found Jack.

"Yeah, Jack, I've been looking you since I met you at Tibby's yesterday. It has something to do with Sarah's letter," I confessed, looking at him earnestly. Jack, I saw, lowered his gaze when I mentioned Sarah; Spot, on the other hand, made a noise as if he were about to speak but, before he had, I cut him off. "It's been some time, and I don't think Sarah's okay. I think… I think something's happened to her."

"You're sister's fine, Dave," Jack said, his eyes still on the wood of the docks, "just like I told you yesterday. You've no reason to hunt me down in Brooklyn if that's all that's on your mind."

He was lying, there was no denying that, and I couldn't believe it. My face went hot with anger just then, my eyes wide and staring. This wasn't what was supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to keep telling me stories now that I've found him.

I shook my head. "I don't believe you. You say she's fine, but she's not. The Sparrow's got her and I'm not leaving here until you tell me why he does. And," I added, pointing my finger at him as he glanced up, his brown eyes wide in surprise, "you tell me what you did to get my sister in trouble."

There. I did it. The two questions left that I needed answers to, I'd finally gotten the chance to ask them. I just hoped Jack Kelly found it in him to be honest for once.

"The Sparrow?" Jack's voice was slow and careful. "I don't know what you're talking about, Davey."

Before I huffed and accused him of lying again, Spot took a step forward. After reaching out and slapping Jack lightly in the belly, he shrugged his shoulders. "No use, Jacky Boy. The Walking Mouth knows a bit more than I'd ever give him credit for. Jigs up, you know?"

As if he were a balloon, the great Cowboy deflated at Spot's words. Hanging his head, his shoulders hunched, he just cursed under his breath.

Spot looked at me, a half-smile on his lips, his eyes calculating now. "You know about the Sparrow?"

"A little," I admitted.

"And he's definitely got Sarah?"

There was something strange about the way Spot said her name. As far as I knew, Spot and Sarah had only met briefly but he said her name like he knew her very well. It was strange but, before I was able to comment on that, something else caught my attention entirely.

"David! Thank God I found you! I thought you went and got yourself lost!"

For the third time, I heard a familiar voice call out my name. It was coming from behind me and, unable to hide it, I grinned a little when I recognized the voice. Ignoring Jack and Spot, I turned around and spied Teller running down the lengths of the docks, waving at me.

I waved back. I was a little offended that she thought I'd gotten lost, and too proud to think that I needed her to keep watch over me but, still, it was nice to see that she'd been concerned. She'd been worried about me and went looking for me… just like I was doing for Sarah. It made me feel a little… well, nice. Even if I was a tad embarrassed at the way she was carrying on in front of the fellas.

Trying to act as if I could handle myself, I took a few confident strides toward her. She was a quick runner—after keeping pace with her yesterday and all morning, I knew that firsthand—and she was in front of me in no time.

She was slightly out of breath when she stopped, her skirt wrapped around her legs and a big frown on her face. She looked upset and I tried not to feel too guilty. I grinned over at her, instead. "Hi, Teller. I see you found us, too."

Her frown turned into a scowl in two seconds flat. "That wasn't fair, Dave, leavin' me like that. What if you woulda went and got yourself killed? How would I have explained that?"

I didn't really understand that remark. I'm sure I looked puzzled but I waved the vague feeling away. There was too much at stake here and, in a way, I was glad that Teller was back. I could use all the help in the world to get my sister back. It didn't really seem like Spot and Jack were going to be all that helpful.

Remembering the two of them, I gestured behind me and said with a touch of pride, "I found them."

Teller stopped herself mid-rant. For the first time since she arrived at the docks, she seemed to realize that there was more than just the two of us here. Her eyes looked past my face, narrowing when she spied Jack and Spot just behind me. The expression she wore was almost a fearful one and, in that moment, my stomach dropped. Without really knowing it, I knew something was dreadfully wrong.

Spot was the first one to speak. He took one look at Teller and nearly growled. "What is she doing here?"

That wasn't a very nice way to greet a lady, even if she was a street girl like Teller. I bristled a bit, looking down at the short Brooklyn leader. "Teller has been so kind as to help me find my sister, Spot."

"Ha!" he snorted. "Are you really that stupid, Mouth?"

I felt Teller's arm on my shoulder and, though it felt kinda nice, it made me a little nervous. "C'mon, Dave. It probably wasn't the best idea to bother them. We'll go lookin' for your Sarah somewhere else." Unless I was imagining it, she sounded a little nervous herself.

"Don't go sayin' her name!"

Spot's outburst took me by surprise. "What's the matter? Why are you so upset, Spot?" I asked, glancing over my shoulder at Teller before turning back to see the fire in his eyes.

Jack decided it was time to step in. Sighing, he followed Teller's lead and placed a calming hand on Spot's shoulder. "What's the matter, Davey?" he asked, his voice tired. He sounded closer to seventy than seventeen just then. "You want to know why he's so upset? 'Cause she's one of the Sparrow's, that's why."

I was confused. "Who is?"

There was a rush of warm air that sent shivers up my spine as Teller exhaled before dropping her hand to her side. "I am, David."

* * *

Author's Note: _I wonder how many of you guys were expecting that cliffhanger, hm? And there's more to come -- and there's only one chapter left to this part! _

_-- stress, 09.28.08_


	15. In Which Teller Tells

Disclaimer: _The characters in this story are the property of Disney and are only used for fan related purposes. _

--

**The Sparrow**

_When Sarah disappears, it's up to David to go looking for her.  
With only a simple clue to where she could have gone, and the understanding that he's in over his head,  
it won't take him too long to discover that his sister wasn't the only one with a secret._

--

I thought I heard her wrong. That, or I really didn't understand what she was saying. Slowly, a look of confusion written on my face, I met Teller's gaze. For the first time since I'd met her yesterday, sitting next to Jack at Tibby's, she looked less than confident. In fact, she looked positively defeated.

It didn't make any sense to me. I opened my mouth once and, when no words came, I left it hanging open.

Spot took the chance to cut in instead. "See, Mouth? That girlie was never helpin' you try to get Sarah back from the Sparrow. She works for him!" Whirling around on her, he pulled his cane out from under the strap of his suspenders. He held it out in front of him as if it were a sword. "Why don't you tell him, Teller?" he sneered. "Tell Mouth you ain't nothin' but a two-bit lousy spy who reports back to the Sparrow!"

In that moment, as Spot jabbed his cane threateningly in Teller's direction, a crazed look on his face, I understood why exactly he was considered one of the most feared newsies in all of New York. Teller was a girl so he wasn't actually trying to hit her but it was easy to see that, if she'd been a boy, he would've already cracked her skull with his cane.

I didn't blame him. When you were poor and didn't have a lot, loyalty was worth something. And Teller, it seemed, was loyal to the Sparrow. I felt like a complete and utter fool. Here I'd thought—

—no. It didn't matter what I thought. This wasn't going to change anything except that, when I found Sarah, I wouldn't owe Teller anything. Not even a darn nickel.

Still, I couldn't help but look at her just then. Surely there was _something_ she had to say.

She hadn't moved from her place on the docks and I was suddenly aware of how close we were, how close she was standing next to me; stubborn to a fault, though, I wasn't going to be the first one to move. Her dark eyes narrowed on the cane that Spot was brandishing. I had to give her credit—she didn't look intimidated at all, just tired.

She sighed. "Yeah, I know the Sparrow and, yeah, I talk to him sometimes, tell him stuff." She shrugged then but it was easy to see that her heart wasn't into it. "I'm Teller, it 's what I do," she said before turning to glance at me imploringly, "but it don't mean I like it. Ya gotta understand."

It was not lost on any of us who she was speaking to. I turned my head away from her. I don't think I wanted to hear it.

When she spoke next, there was heat in her voice. She sounded much more like the Teller I _thought _I was getting to know.

"There! You happy now, Conlon?"

"I'll be happy when your ass is out of my city and your scabber boss gets his damn claws off of Sarah!"

I couldn't help it. Maybe I was trying to get my mind off of Teller's questionable betrayal, but Spot's attitude really seemed to bug me. Forgetting he was the one with the cane, the slingshot, the back-up muscle and the reputation, I turned on him. My arms were stretched out in front of me, my forehead furrowed. I snapped. "What does it matter to you, anyway?"

I heard a harsh laugh—it was Teller's hardly amused laugh—as I watched Spot sputter and stumble in response to my question. Finally, he pursed his lips together before shaking his head. "It matters to me 'cause it matters to Jacky here."

I automatically turned to look at Jack, wanting confirmation, I guess. Surprisingly, Jack had lost his haunted look, swapping it in favor of his trademark half-smile. "What was it you said to me before, Spot? Jigs up? Why don't you come clean? It's her brother, you know. It'll all come out eventually."

My attention bounced from Jack to Spot and back. When I caught Jack's eye a second time, he nodded.

I felt sick. Just _how _much was Sarah keeping from us all?

"You… and Sarah?" I said, nearly stuttering in my surprise. "You and my sister?"

Spot stuck his chest out and lifted his chin. "Yeah, so? What of it?"

I have to admit, Spot's indignant response deflated my anger quite a bit. Once I got over the initial shock of it all, it kind of made sense. I mean, Sarah liked Jack for awhile, didn't she? Why not Spot Conlon?

All right. There were a million and one reasons why not but, with that cane in his hand and that daring expression on his face, I couldn't think of any at the moment.

"Nothing, Spot."

"That's what I thought."

He seemed satisfied but that satisfaction didn't last. So what if Spot and Sarah were together? It didn't mean nothing when the Sparrow had her. That idea seemed to hit Spot at the same time that it struck me. He scowled and snorted condescendingly on Teller's direction. Muttering something about "Mouth and the spy," he looked away and spat on the docks.

Now that the attention had been taken off of her for a bit, Teller wasn't as resigned as she was before. Without Spot waving his cane around, yelling at her, she got most of her strong personality back. Her dirty, dusty face twisted in that familiar haughty expression and her hands on her hips, she looked down upon Spot. "Stop lookin' at me like that, Conlon. It ain't what it looks like and it sure ain't what it seems."

Before I knew it, I was frowning. "Nothing is what it seems, huh?" I paused. And then, "I thought you were trying to help me."

Teller's eyes widened. She looked taken aback. "I am!"

"Yeah, sure. Tell him another one."

She whipped her head around, her braid almost slapping her in the face. "Keep out of it, Conlon."

"Or what?"

"Ha! Wouldn't you like to know," she muttered darkly.

I tried my best to ignore both of them. I didn't know what to believe just then, and their bickering was making it difficult to think.

Finally, I said, "I don't get it. I understand why I've got to find Sarah, and even why Spot and Jack are trying to look for her—" stopped for a second before, "—you are looking for her, right?"

Spot almost growled his answer; at the very least, I could swear I saw him bare his teeth. "Of course we are! As soon as Cowboy got the sign that she was gone he came straight here!"

That reminded me of something else I wanted to know but, at the moment, it wasn't as important as what I was already saying. It would have to wait until later. For now, I continued, "Okay. So we're trying to get her back. But, what I don't understand is, why does the Sparrow have her in the first place?"

Spot nodded at Teller. "Why don't you ask his spy?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Umm… _spy_?"

Drawing herself up to her full height—which, funnily enough, was a few inches taller than Spot—Teller glowered at him. "Get this through your thick skull, Conlon! I. Am. Not. His. Spy! I told you, yes, I've done jobs for him in the past. Just because he's got your little girlfriend all locked up somewhere and you can't figure it out on your own, that doesn't mean I'm working against you. If you haven't realized it yet, I want to _help _Dave, not hurt him!"

I'm pretty sure my jaw dropped open then. Teller didn't seem to notice as she added, "I was sittin' with Jack and some of the others yesterday. Rachel Harpen invited me and _she _was the one who asked me to help. I've _been _helpin' and now I _want_ to help. You believe me, David, right?"

Her story now was exactly the same as what she told me when we first met. For all I knew, this could be some sort of rehearsed scene. I mean, she never told me she worked for the Sparrow before—how can I trust her now?

Then again, I never asked her if she worked for him. I'd asked her if she knew him and she told me she didn't like him. Just because she hadn't offered any more information than that does that make her a liar? Shoot, if I knew someone who made off with Teller's brother, I wouldn't come forward with that knowledge either.

I decided, for the moment at least, to reserve judgment. Besides, there was someone else I was waiting to hear from.

Jack Kelly, in all the time I'd known him, had never been one to keep his mouth shut. Whether he was sticking up for the little guy or just plain sticking his nose in where it didn't belong, Jack always was ready for a comment or a smart remark or two.

However, almost as soon as Spot and Teller started their argument, he wasn't saying a word. A cowboy hat suddenly on his head, his arms crossed over his chest, he was watching the two of them with an interested eye. He was a spectator, nothing more.

Well, that was about to change. Ever since I gave him the note that Sarah had left for him, he's been lying to me. Maybe I was being a little naïve, but he had to come up with the truth sooner or later.

"Jack," I said and, almost begrudgingly, he looked my way, "do you know why the Sparrow went after Sarah?"

He stared at me unblinkingly for a few seconds. Then, with the simple flick of his forefinger, he hit his hat, knocking it down his back. The circles under his eyes were even darker up close.

"It's… it's hard to explain, Davey."

That ruffled my feathers. I scowled. "I don't understand why everyone keeps saying that. I'm actually quite smart, you know."

There was that half-smile again. "But not smart enough to stay out of this, huh?"

"I'm quite stubborn too, Jack."

He laughed at that. "You and Sarah, you've both got that goin' for ya."

At the mention of my sister's name, I stared at him pointedly. He got the message.

"You want to know why he was gunnin' for her?" I nodded. "All right, I'll tell ya. The Sparrow, he wants Sarah 'cause… 'cause I wanted Sarah and 'cause Spot wants Sarah. Ya get it?"

To be honest, I wasn't quite sure I did. I heard Teller's gasp behind me—she was a little quicker on the uptake than me, I guess. She understood what Jack was saying.

"Don't ya see, Dave?" he asked, anxious hands fiddling with the frayed ends of his rope belt. "The Sparrow just wants what he can't have. If Miss Sarah Jacobs is good enough for the likes of me in Manhattan and Spot in Brooklyn… well, then he wants her as his own. His queen, you could say." He snorted under his breath. "King of New York, hah!"

Put like that, I understood exactly what he was trying to say. I just wished I didn't. "He took Sarah away from her family, away from everyone, because he was _jealous_? That's… that's crazy!"

Jack shrugged. "That's the Sparrow."

My head was reeling at the revelation. I'd known for two days now that Sarah had gotten mixed up with the Sparrow but I never really made any guesses why. Now, though, now that I knew the truth, it seemed ridiculous. It seemed… childish.

Glancing at Teller, it seemed the news came over as quite the shock her to her, too. In fact, she almost looked green.

I know how she felt.

Okay. Fine. Now I knew what was going on—even if I didn't like it. I could see why Jack and Spot, even, were so intent on finding Sarah on their own. If what Jack said was true, then it only followed that they felt partly to blame for Sarah's trouble. But I didn't want them to think they had to do this by themselves.

I got myself into this mess because I was devoted to my sister and I wanted to see her back at home. I wasn't stopping now.

"All right, then. What do we do now?"

I tried to emphasize the word 'we'. The two of them were stuck with me whether they liked it or not.

Spot looked angry, and Teller was interested. I had a funny feeling that, whether _Spot _liked it or not, we were stuck with Teller. Again, I had to work hard at fighting a blossoming smile.

Jack, however, looked simply determined. "What do we do now? We go after the Sparrow, of course."

Of course.

* * *

Part One.

_Fin._

* * *

Author's Note: _Well, that's that. I said I wanted to have _The Sparrow _completed by my birthday and now, today, on my 25th birthday (yeesh, I feel old!), I've done just that. Of course, it's only the end of Part One of David's adventure. Part Two, _The Lark_, will be released shortly -- and just wait 'til you see what that first chapter entails! If you think the end answers a couple of questions, you'll be amazed to see what's revealed in the second beginning!_

_Thank you so much to everyone who went along for the ride with this one. I've grown rather attached to some of these characters and I can't wait to continue in their journey. I hope you stick around for the next part ;)_

_-- stress, 10.03.08_


End file.
